What Heroes and History are made of
by jake111
Summary: A wise dwarf once said that history is simply a collection of the best tales. That's what history is made of, the tales that last, the parts that the world chooses to remember. History is a simple concept. What heroes are made of, on the other hand, now that's where things get interesting... Rated M for all of the same things you'll see if you play the game
1. The end of the beginning

**Hey guys, I get that this first one is kind of massive, I didn't originally intend to publish it all at once, but I did.**

 **So if you feel like the first chapter is a bit too huge for your taste, just go ahead and skip it. All of the chapters after this are a lot shorter. You'll still be able to understand the story, you'll just be surprised more often.**

 **BTW for those who are new I'm writing this months after I first published the story, so there's a big note at the end of the second chapter explaining what I just said.**

 **9:10 Dragon**

The old man shuffled down the cold stone stairs, a cold draft struck him as he descended lower into the catacombs. The man's robes were shades of black and blue, the robes were covered in shifting runes that emitted a faint sapphire glow in the half-light of the stair-well. Around the man's waist was a golden belt made up of five disks, each bearing the symbol of a school of magic, hanging around his neck by a silver chain was a an amulet composed of a large ruby with small silver talons imposed upon it embedded into a golden setting. The man wore supple, elegant leather gloves of Dalish styling, the only distinguishing mark on which was a lion stitched on the palm. The man's face was like ancient parchment, cracked and wrinkled, and his head was full with hair as stark white as the snow on the peaks of the Frostback Mountains. His robes hid his true build; he could have been plump or lanky, sinewy or weak. What could easily be discerned was the man's height; the man was easily six feet and seven inches tall. Flanking the old man were two guards, each dressed in identical bright White Steel plate with sheathed Silverite long swords hanging at their sides, the Silverite shields on their backs bore no sigil. The guards kept a respectable distance of four paces from the man until he had reached the doors at the bottom of the stair-well, then they each took hold of a door handle and pulled both open wide. The man stepped through the doors to enter into the cavernous space beyond.

The man entered onto a balcony that could best be described as an observation deck. In the space below one could see numerous figures darting around from place to place. Elves, Dwarves, and Humans could be seen running from worktable to worktable, they carried scrolls and books, chalk and candles, bottles and boxes filled with various potions and stones and other alchemical elements. The guards watched the entire process with the stoic calm and lack of interest only attainable by veteran mercenaries through years of experience in assuaging both personal ethics and curiosity with vast amounts of monetary compensation.

"The ritual went smoothly, only time will tell if it was successful or not." The old man spoke with in a smooth baritone, barely marred by his age. He stood close the edge of the balcony and leaned upon the wooden railing.

"Thank the Maker; we don't have much time left. Our agents in Rivain say that the fleet left port a week ago, at most we have a day till they arrive." A light mezzo-soprano startled both of the guards, though the old man remained visibly unfazed. The origin of the voice was a woman who stood in the shadows between two of torches protruding from the stone walls. The woman stepped into the light; she was a middle aged woman with raven black hair and the naturally tan skin common to her line. She stood at a willowy five feet and nine inches and wore an expensive, low cut, blue silk gown of Orlesian styling that complimented her slim build her and her ample bust.

"I know, is everything in place?" The old man kept staring down at the hustle and bustle on the cavern floor as he spoke, the action had become all the more frantic as news of the impending arrival of the fleet slithered its way from person to person.

"Yes, the subjects are in the safe room and the packages will be delivered by our agents, everything is proceeding exactly as you planned it my lord." The woman moved closer to the railing to stand a mere two paces from him, he rarely let anyone so near to him, but he held a soft spot for her.

"Good, I must thank you Revka; no one has been of such great help or has sacrificed as much as you have for this project." Revka Amell stiffened at the compliment; she had not been used to hearing nice things for a very long time.

"It was nothing."

"No, it was everything, you used your share of your family's fortune to procure the mercenaries and supplies, your contacts in Tevinter gained us this fortress, and you were the one who gathered the Dalish keepers, the Dwarven shapers, the Tevinter Altus and Circle magi. Without you, this project would not exist. You were the one who found the subjects; you gave up your own-" For the first time in all of the years that they had known each other, Revka cut him off.

"I have had nine children, four girls and five boys. I had my first child when I was a mere girl of twenty; Niket was a beautiful baby boy who was the spitting image of his father." A small rueful smile came across Revka's face.

"At first he showed no signs of having any magic, if he had I had planned to use my family's money and connections to shield him from the Chantry and tutor him myself as my father had done for me." The smile turned nostalgic.

"Back then, with the right connections and the proper amount of coin, certain exceptions to the rules could be made. It was common practice for noble families in the Free Marches to hide and train their mage-born children themselves, it was even considered fashionable to maintain an apostate tutor, even if your children weren't magic." Revka gave a small chuckle when she thought of the extravagances of her youth.

"The Templars knew I was an apostate and it did not take a great deal of thought to assume that my son was one as well, but my plan worked and they left us alone in exchange for the large tithe I provided to the Chantry, it worked right up until his dedication ceremony." At this Revka's smile turned sour.

"Just as the grand cleric had finished the ceremony, Niket raised his tiny arms and giggled, a small fire formed on the Grand Cleric's sleeve and within seconds a templar had torn Niket from my arms and I never saw him again. My husband and I tried again, but the Templars were far more vigilant and there was always a templar escorting me until I gave birth, this time there was no hiding it and my first daughter was ripped from my breast before I had even given her a name, the same happened for my third, and for my fourth." Revka's face turned into the perfect expression of despair.

"The loss of two children was too much for my husband to take and he left me. I found a new husband and tried again, and again, and again, but each time was the same. I prayed for at least one of my children to be born without magic; I prayed to The Maker, I prayed to the old gods and the Dalish gods and the spirits of the Fade, but none answered." Revka's voice betrayed the rage that burned inside of her.

"Three years ago I found that my eldest son, my Niket, had been made tranquil for simply speaking against the knight commander of his circle." Revka balled her fists and small wisps of flame licked out from in between her fingers.

I have lost three husbands, my family name, and eight of my children to the Chantry and the templars, so if this project succeeds in giving my daughter a real future then it was all worth it, even if I don't get to see that future. So yes, it was nothing at all." Revka's face had become as hard as stone.

The old man, without a word, embraced her as the shell cracked and the tears began to flow, and there the two stood in the midst of the panicked evacuation, two mages resolute against the world, both resigned to the prices that they would have to pay, and of prices there would be many, and they would be steep.

….

Greagoir stood on the deck of the ship, the sky was black, the sea was only beginning to transition from calm ripples to large waves, and the wind whipped around him, many of his brothers had retreated below deck, leaving only him and a few others out in the open.

"At least they were intelligent enough not to make us wear the ceremonial skirts." Greagoir wore the standard plate mail of the Templar order, the only thing missing was the traditional skirt. Greagoir hated the skirt; he had hated them ever since an abomination had grabbed the hem while he had been pursuing the beast. Needless to say he ended up flat on his face and would have died had it not been for the timely arrival of one of his sisters-in-arms. Ever since that day he had despised the skirt

"Finally going to give the mages what they truly deserve, what we should do to all of them, eh Greagoir." Alrik strolled up to him. Greagoir visibly scowled for a moment while Alrik could not see him before covering his face with a neutral expression, he despised this pathetic wretch some called a man.

"Hello Alrik" he replied in an amicable tone, Greagoir was a man accustomed to hiding his emotions.

"Come on Greagoir, we've been keeping these beasts in their place for years together, when will you learn to call me Otto" Otto Alrik was a Knight-Lieutenant who was well known as a man of two personalities, one a jolly fun-loving man who loved nothing more than a pint of ale with his brothers, the other a cold and hateful man who felt that the only options for dealing with a mage were death or the Rite of Tranquility. And if some of the rumors were even half true…. Uh this wretch disgusts me, he thought.

"Oh you know me Alrik, and please do not forget that we want the mages to be taken alive if possible." I hope that some mage gets a good shot at you, you pathetic bastard. Greagoir actually smiled at the thought.

"Of course, I heard that Revka Amell will be there, I hope to take her alive. I'll teach her, her proper place in the world once she's tranquil, on her knees at my feet. Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule him, and she will serve me well" disgusting bastard, how dare he pervert the Chant in such a way, if I push him over the railing will he be able to scream before he hits the water, Greagoir thought

"Alrik perhaps those are thoughts best kept to yourself" should I stab him first or will his armor just drag him under, Greagoir's hand went to his sword.

"Oh come on Greagoir, you are a Knight-Commander, you need to learn to enjoy the perks of being a Templar." That's it I am going to kill this man, Greagoir slowly began to draw his sword when Alrik's life was saved by the timely arrival of one of their sisters-in-arms.

"I do hope that I am not interrupting anything" a high born Orlesian accent came from behind the two.

"Of course not Knight-Captain Nymeria, Alrik and I were just chatting about the upcoming battle." Greagoir's smile became warm and genuine at the sight of the former bard in her plate armor.

"Ah perhaps, Greagoir, you and I should discuss the upcoming battle, in private" Nymeria raised a well manicured eyebrow to highlight the statement.

"Of course Knight-Captain, I look forward to seeing you both on the battlefield" Alrik gave Greagoir a smirk and a wink before turning and heading for the hatch leading below deck.

"A truly abhorrent man, it would not be too great a tragedy if he were to catch a bolt of lightning from some lucky mage tomorrow." Knight-Captain Nymeria was rare in many ways, the highborn daughter of an Orlesian noble family with classical training as a bard she had given up her high station in life to take a position in the chantry, an act uncommon enough on its own, the fact that she had joined as a templar instead of a sister made her an almost an anomaly.

She was also one of the few templars who truly believed that it was the duty of their order was not to jail mages, but to protect them, both from outsiders who may wish to persecute them, demons that would wish to possess them and from themselves when they submitted to temptation. She knew that some considered her to be a freak, she also knew that others considered her to be a rare gem. She, herself, lacked any care for what anyone thought.

Greagoir always felt inadequate in every way around her, ever since they had met as initiates. He felt like a lumbering ogre in comparison to the way she could move in full plate as gracefully as if she wore a gown of the finest Orlesian silk. He felt like a peasant when in the presence of her regal, composed demeanor. He felt wholly unworthy of her radiant beauty. Greagoir had never felt shame for his ancient Clayne heritage, he had even bragged about it to a few of the Orlesian initiates who had tried to lord over him in training, Nymeria had never done that, but whenever she drew near he felt like collapsing to kneel before her.

And yet somehow she had turned into the love of his life.

Greagoir wrapped an armor plated arm around Nymeria.

"Not now my lion, the men might see" templars were by no mean bound by any vows of chastity, but marriage was discouraged in many cases for practical reasons, but also by no means forbidden. Relationships between templars, even those of differing rank, were discouraged in theory, but permitted so long as they did not interfere with their duties, but it would not do for a Knight-Captain to be seen held in the arms of her commander the eve before a major battle.

"These men are all loyal to me and most of them are below deck anyway" Greagoir drew Nymeria in for a kiss. It was slow, gentle, but savage, rough to awaken feeling in lips chilled by the sea gales.

"I love you so much Greagoir Howe" Nymeria brought her hand up to caress Greagoir's cheek, a few strands of her platinum blonde hair fell across her pale face.

"And I love you Nymeria Valmont" Greagoir tightened his hold on her, clinging to her as a drowning man clings to his last breath. Greagoir was surprised when she suddenly pulled away.

"I believe that we should take this to the privacy of your cabin." The corners of Nymeria's mouth turned up into a naughty little grin.

"Unless you wish to make love right here on deck, where any of the troops could come on deck and see us" Greagoir returned her grin.

"Don't tempt me, your cabin, now" with that Nymeria spun on her heels and began marching straight toward the hatch to go below deck.

Greagoir stood there for a solid minute, wondering not for the first time, what he had done that had made the Maker find him worthy of her.

"Best not to question his will" Greagoir muttered to himself and gave a loud chuckle before immediately taking up a pace behind her.

….

"Faster my lady, we must be ready to leave the moment the Templar fleet lands" Lord Pyral Harrowmont harried the woman who stood in front of him.

"Relax Harrowmont, we have at least the night before those warrior caste wannabes show up." Her lady ship, High Queen of Orzammar and all of the Dwarven Empire, Paragon Katrin Aeducan, of the House Flamesilver, let out a large echoing laugh. She was of average height for a dwarven woman, three feet and seven inches. She held the muscular build that was common among those of the warrior caste. Katrin had a slender face with plump crimson lips; her lips were actually a shade of light pink but she found the crimson makeup allowed her to be taken more seriously. She had an aquiline nose and slightly larger than average amber eyes.

"My lady, I do not think that you quite understand the gravity of the situation." Harrowmont chased after Katrin as she began walking across the grand chamber that had once served as the entry hall for dwarven delegations.

"Harrowmont, I understand the situation perfectly, roughly eight thousand templars will descend upon this Tevinter fortress, and we have roughly six hundred mages, four thousand mercenary troops, my personal force of five hundred warriors, and roughly two thousand non combatant support troops and scholars. The mercenaries will hold them from the battlements for as long as possible, once the outer wall is broken, most likely using siege weapons, the mercenaries will then fall back across the moat to positions in the courtyard behind the inner wall. Once the inner courtyard has fallen, the mages and the remaining mercenaries will then attempt to fight them room to room and cover the retreat to this chamber, once here, my warriors will cover the retreat into the Deep Roads. Once as many have escaped as possible, we fall back and seal the doors behind us." Katrin drew a dagger from a sheath on the back of her belt and began tossing it up and catching it.

"Yes my lady that is exactly it." Harrowmont let out an exasperated sigh as he trailed behind Katrin.

"Simplicity itself, so why do you still look like someone tried to shove a nug up your ass?" Katrin had made her way down the hall to her quarters and now stood at the door to her room, still tossing her dagger up and catching it.

"To be blunt my lady, I have hated this entire nonsensical enterprise from the moment you were approached by that surfacer who came to you to ask our

empire's assistance in this wild nug hunt." Harrowmont followed her into her room and took a seat on one of her couches as Katrin went behind a privacy screen to change, followed by two servants of course.

"This is no wild nug hunt Pyral, the Dwarven Empire must evolve, and this is the first step in doing so." Katrin stood with her arms out and legs spread apart as her hand maidens began to disassemble her golden aurum armor, it was of the kind common among dwarven nobles, all angles and studs with intricate engraving.

"The Dwarven Empire has no need to change or evolve as you say. We have the finest civilization in history, we are the envy of all the world." Harrowmont stood as his voice grew both in volume and in outrage.

"I find it sad that you actually believe those words. Our civilization is dying, the darkspawn threat grows greater every day, one good push and Orzammar will fall, can we even claim to be an empire anymore when we only control one city and a few miles of tunnels beyond it? I doubt we would even hold that if not for the Legion of the Dead, which is made up of the same casteless and criminals that you, your fellow conservative radicals, and even my husband look down upon as lower than nug shit." Katrin spoke calmly as her handmaidens undid the buckles on her pauldrons with all of the speed and precision that only a life of servitude could provide.

"How dare you, where is your sense of honor, of dwarven pride? The Ancestors dictate all roles in life as they have since the time of Bloadikk. The casteless descend from thieves and criminals and thus they are thieves and criminals, I descend from nobles and thus I am noble. This system has preserved our empire since its foundation and will continue to preserve it for eternity. Not only is change not needed to preserve the empire, change will destroy our empire." Harrowmont's voice had settled into the calm, yet impassioned tone that he usually reserved for the Assembly floor.

"It is almost terrifying that you actually believe that. Orzammar has a population of a little over one hundred thousand recognized citizens; this is less than half of what the population was a century ago, this is because we not only refuse to recognize over a quarter of our population, we do our best to quietly kill them and actively prevent them from contributing to society." Katrin stood nude as her servants took her underclothes and placed them in the basket next to the rack that now held her armor, her handmaidens then began to rub perfumed oils all over her body and toweled dry the areas that had produced large amounts of sweat under her armor and underclothes.

"The casteless cannot contribute anything, the Stone has rejected them and as must we, just as we always have, just as we always will." The certainty in Harrowmont's voice was mildly disheartening to hear for Katrin, she had not expected to change his mind that night, but she still held out hope that she would make progress eventually as she was with her husband.

"My lady, even if the very idea of this wasn't an abomination that goes against every idea that has preserved and continues to preserve Orzammar, the castes would never agree to enfranchise the casteless. This is the way it has been and always will be, we must adhere to our traditions, our way of life cannot change, not if we wish to survive." Lord Harrowmont let his voice settle down into a sad, almost pleading voice; Harrowmont was a master orator.

"Goodnight Lord Harrowmont" Katrin said with a sigh. Tonight is not the night that I turn that old bastard over to my side, she thought.

"Goodnight, my lady, please think on what I have said tonight." Lord Pyral Harrowmont gave a small bow toward the privacy screen and took his leave.

After he had left and closed the door behind him, one of the handmaidens went to a dresser against the far wall and withdrew a small white nightie with gold embroidery and took it back behind the screen where her lady still stood nude.

"Will you be requiring your nightclothes my lady?" The red haired handmaiden kneeled before Katrin and held up the nightie.

"No I don't think that I will be needing clothes tonight." Katrin stepped out from behind the screen and walked over to where her bed lay. The bed was expansive with well over a dozen pillows, the sheets were Antivan silk and the blanket made of Nevarran cotton, the mattress and pillows were stuffed with goose feathers.

"Will you be needing one of us to offer companionship tonight my lady?" the brunette haired handmaiden said as the two handmaidens stood before their lady.

"Would both of you mind sharing my bed tonight?" Katrin allowed a small smile cross her face, she always desired companionship the night before a battle, and her handmaidens offered the perfect substitute to all of the complications that would ensue if she allowed a man to share her bed.

"Of course my lady" the red headed handmaiden said as both herself and the brunette set about removing their clothing. Katrin had been surprised the first time she had slept with one of her handmaidens; she had been on a prolonged Deep Roads expedition when she was a girl of twenty two years. She had been away from Endrin for months and one late night in her tent the urges had taken her and she had decided to handle it herself, one of her handmaidens who had been sleeping next to her had noticed and quickly rolled over and sated her lady's desires quickly and efficiently before rolling back over and returning to sleep, leaving Katrin staring open mouthed at the ceiling of the tent.

Katrin had been substituting her handmaidens for Endrin ever since then, she loved her husband but a girl had needs even when she was away from her husband. She would never do it if her handmaidens weren't willing. It was a pleasant surprise to find her handmaidens, Kalah and Genev, were soft and sweet and willing.

Katrin crawled into bed, enjoying the feel of the Antivan silk against her naked skin, and laid her head back against the pillows as her handmaidens followed her.

Katrin let out a small contented sigh as her companions began to pleasure her.

They would fuck her like it was her last night in this world.

Because after all, she thought, it just might be.

….

The old man sat at his desk and looked out through the pillars at the sea. He had claimed the top chamber of the fortress for himself; it was a large circular chamber with large floor to ceiling frames surrounding the circumference of the chamber that he believed once held stained glass but now sat empty, magic wards kept the rain out. The room was lit by enchanted torches attached to the walls in between the frames

The old man looked down at the tome he had been studying and removed his reading glasses, dwarven made spectacles with a few enchantments.

"I'm getting too old to keep burning my torch at both ends." The old man rubbed his wizened eyes, trying futilely to force the exhaustion out of them. The whispers were loud tonight, offering him youth, glory, love, all he had to do was let them in. He laughed and politely declined all of them. He had experienced all of those things and did not need demons to recreate any of them. He knew how to block out the demons, as all mages were taught to do, but he chose not to. They served as a constant reminder of the burden he had to bear in exchange for his power.

"Should a man of your advanced age truly be up so late?" a familiar female voice came from behind him. No, he hadn't made any deals with demons, he had made a deal with something far more powerful and far more dangerous than any mortal man could understand.

"I don't think you have much room to talk, considering your own advanced age, Flemeth." The old man spit the words out with the venom of a cobra.

"Yes, but I believe the years have been far kinder to me, if I do say so to myself." Flemeth's words were punctuated by the click of her heels as she strode around the desk.

"How did you get in, this room is shielded" the old man was careful to keep himself from gripping too tightly as his hand slid around his staff. It was a simple stave of Ironbark with a large emerald with tendrils of the wood holding it on the staff, more meant for everyday utility than his war staff..

"What are a few broken wards between friends?" The old man caught her wolfish smile as she entered the edge of his vision, it infuriated him, but he kept his calm demeanor.

"Now answer me one question." The old man could barely contain himself.

"Ah, but questions are like cats, or is it bats, I can never remember." Flemeth was now fully in the vision of the old man. She was a tall woman with red armored robes that appeared to be modeled after dragon scales and moonstone grey hair done up to resemble dragon horns. Those simple pointless statements had once made the old man laugh; now it drove him over the edge.

"SHUT UP AND TELL ME WHERE MY DAUGHTER IS YOU HORRID BITCH!" The old man jumped up, sending his chair slamming to the floor. He raised his staff and the emerald began to glow, and an arc of lightning shot towards the spot where Flemeth stood. Suddenly the spot was empty and the lightning struck and radiated against the ward.

"So aggressive, and you were always such a tender lover." An amused voice whispered in his ear. The old man spun around immediately, bringing his staff into a downward arc with a shocking level of strength, but once again his strike met only empty air.

"You knew the terms of our arrangement when it was made dear, you give me a child, I give you the knowledge to carry out your experiments and further that secretive agenda of yours." Flemeth's voice held a slight edge just enough to show the danger hidden beneath her joviality and randomness. She stood directly in front of his desk.

Every vein in the old man's face was visible, every line and wrinkle contorted into sharp angle, his body heaved with every breath, and energy crackled along his staff and robes. His entire form was a perfect masterpiece of rage. The old man opened his mouth as though to scream at the witch once mote, but instead all that came out was an exasperated sigh and his entire body relaxed as he shifted all of his weight on to his staff.

"I know, but at least tell me if my child is well, give me her name at least".

"The child is fine, she is tucked safely away in a hut far away from civilization where I will raise her as I see fit, her name is none of your concern." Flemeth leveled a condescending glare at him as she spoke.

"Good, good, at least she is well, and if I succeed, she will see a new age in her lifetime." The old man leaned his staff against his desk, set his chair upright again, and collapsed back into it.

"And how will your plans bring about this new age?" Flemeth picked her teeth with one of her clawed gloves as she spoke.

"Hah, why don't you tell me? The only reason you gave me the knowledge to pursue this endeavor is because it works into your plans and your agenda. I have no doubt that you are already twelve steps ahead of me." The old man let out a small laugh, and a small sad smile crossed his face. The witch gave him a hard look.

"Tomorrow will be a costly day, and it gets no easier from here." Flemeth turned around and began walking toward the edge of one of the sills.

"I know that, by The Maker, I know that, I just have to hope that this will all be worth it." The old man let his head fall back against his chair and closed his eyes.

Flemeth reached the edge and looked back at the old man with a small smirk on her face.

"Oh and by the way my dear boy, I'm not twelve steps ahead, I've already won the game."

When the old man opened his eyes, the witch was gone, and all that was left of her was the silhouette of a high dragon flying into the darkness.

….

"Come on, move it you louts, before those ballistae can take aim upon us!" Greagoir called above the winds. A large bolt of flaming timber crashed into the sea a mere seven feet from their boat, sending a fresh spray of sea foam over the knight-commander.

"See, now row faster, they had to miss the first shot, but if they miss the second, then they damn well won't miss the third if we're still on the water." Heeding his words, several of the templars began to speed up their rowing.

Greagoir turned his focus to the black stone beach that was to serve as their landing point. Gaining a foothold on the beach would be a matter of landing. A simple enough matter considering that they likely don't have the men to defend the entire island, one of the more optimistic knight-commanders had told him that morning.

Simple does not mean easy, Greagoir thought as a bolt from one of the ballistae struck the center of a boat near theirs, engulfing it in a ball of flame.

"They're using enchanted bolts, keep firm watch for any hitting close to us" he barked. He knew that the men and women serving under him were professionals, but in the middle of a battle, one had to make sure that orders garnered more attention than fireballs. So he bellowed orders at his troops like an arms master during the first week of training.

If there was one thing that Greagoir could say was unique about battling magical forces, it was the smell. The smell of flesh set aflame by magical fire was somehow stronger, more nauseating than that of normal fire, as if in protest of its own unnatural nature. Greagoir recognized the boat that was destroyed as they passed it, the man in command of it had been Knight-Captain Grimm, the man who was passed over for the rank of knight-commander in favor of Greagoir. He had been a good man, with two grown children and a wife, his son was an initiate of the Order. Only years of combat training and martial experience allowed Greagoir to drive these thoughts from his mind and focus on the task at hand.

"Come on Greagoir, you're responsible for more than just your own life here, these men and women deserve better than to die due to your grief fueled musings." Greagoir kept his voice to be a near silent whisper, he was the commander here, and that meant he couldn't show even the slightest crack in his demeanor.

There was a loud clunk and a jolt as they hit water too shallow for the landing boat, they would have to wade the rest of the way to the beach.

"Disembark" Greagoir called, the templars in the boat dropping their oars in favor of swords and shields. A few carried twin daggers or bows that marked them as followers of the more roguish disciplines, but all carried shields.

Greagoir leapt out of the boat, water splashing and rocks crunching under his feet as he landed. He drew his shield up in front of him and raised his sword, marching forward toward the beach. Greagoir didn't have to look to know that those under his command were falling in behind him, shields raised just as his was, ready to take on any foe.

Just as the optimistic knight-commander had said, taking the beach was a simple matter. The mercenaries had pulled their forces back to form a shield wall in front of the fortresses gates. A sound plan, let the archers and ballistae on the wall do most of the work while the ground force focused on anyone who got through. These mercenaries are true professionals, Greagoir thought, if they play their cards right, then we might actually lose.

It was slow going with arrows and bolts pinging against his shield the entire way, each hit rattling the very bones of his arm as he lead his troops toward the massive outer wall of the fortress. A large flaming boulder slammed into the wall ahead of him, killing several archers and telling Greagoir that the trebuchets had reached the shore. The knight-commander risked a look at the top of the wall, a dangerous move if one of the mercenaries on the ground noticed his shifted focus. He was rewarded with the sight of the archers and the ballistae operators retreating from the top of the wall. He heard a few cheers yelled by men in other groups, most likely from some of the less experienced brothers. An experienced warrior such as Greagoir knew that these men weren't cutting their losses and making a run for it, they were pulling back to preserve their men and strengthen their next line of defense.

"Clear the way for the siege troops!" The yell came from one of the knight-commanders behind him. Greagoir didn't look back, but he knew that if he had, he would have seen a battering ram rolling off of a barge and several groups of men would be disembarking from landing dinghies carrying extremely long ladders.

"Onward, quickly" Greagoir called, without the constant hail of arrows he and his troops were able to speed up to a steady jog, fast enough to give their push momentum, but slow enough as to not exhaust them before the battle had truly begun.

As they approached the gate, the fight started in earnest. Other groups had reached the gate before they had, and the careful formations had now been replaced with a very well armed street brawl. Greagoir slammed his shield into the side of a mercenary who had been fighting another templar, the unsuspecting man was sent to the ground and a templar blade pierced his throat before he could react, he hadn't been wearing a gorget. Greagoir caught a blow with his shield, using the opening to stab his blade into the mercenary's unprotected armpit. The blade slipped out of the man with a bloody slurp and a swift kick from Greagoir sent him to the ground. A hard impact took him form the side, Greagoir moved with the momentum and with a quick spin, turned to face his new opponent with his shield up, ready for the inevitable sword strike that would follow a shield bash.

He found no sword to crash down on his waiting shield, instead he found the love of his life withdrawing two daggers from the back of a man in veridium chainmail. It was a strong reminder of one of the reasons that she was the love of his life. Also a powerful reminder of what will happen to me if I ever break her heart, he mused.

"Have we secured the beach Knight-Commander?" Greagoir turned to see the source of the question, a young man dressed in the, mostly decorative, ceremonial armor of a messenger of a Knight-Divine. Greagoir was thankful for the helmet that concealed his glare. Greagoir scanned the beach, the rest of the army was landing, then he turned back to the gate where the last of the men defending the gate had fallen to the templar force. Then a small moan caught his attention, Greagoir looked down at the man that Nymeria had stabbed, the moan was a death rattle, the man would be dead within the next minute or two.

Greagoir looked back at the messenger, most likely the third born son of some Orlesian noble family that was too dense for the Game, and too cowardly for the Chevaliers, so his family had pulled some strings and filled some Chantry coffers in exchange for him getting a comfortable and safe position serving the top officers in Val Royeaux, he had probably never even seen someone be killed… An idea popped into his mind and under his helmet, a dark smile emerged.

"No" Greagoir said, then he shouldered his shield, and slammed his sword through the back of the skull of the dying man. The messenger winced at the sound of the man's final death rattle.

"Now, you can tell the Knight-Divine that the beach is secure." Greagoir casually leaned on the sword, driving it deeper into the skull of the man-turned-corpse on the ground. The messenger stared down at the corpse, then the man ripped off his helmet, turned, and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the black stone of the beach. Then the man, who had taken on a pale green pallor, managed a clumsy salute, and stumbled back towards the landing area.

"Must you be so cruel, Greagoir? You cannot blame the lad for being born into nobility. So was I, and you weren't exactly raised on a pig farm yourself, in case you have forgotten." Nymeria sheathed her blades and removed her helmet, unleashing the dazzling smile that she was well known for. Greagoir like to flatter himself that he could tell when it was real and when it was her mask.

"I don't deny either of those things, but you and I actually earned our positions by serving the Order, neither your family nor my family bought our positions, and both of us continue to risk ourselves for the Order. His position was bought for him because he's too stupid to serve his family in politics, too scared to join the Orlesian military, and was born too late to inherit anything." Greagoir hated two things about the Order, the extremists, and the politicians, both for relatively the same reason, they were selfish idiots with egos that dwarfed Qunari dreadnaughts in size. Nymeria simply sighed and shook her head, it was a conversation that they had dealt with many times.

"Knight-Commander, sir, not to interrupt, but why are we stopping?" A Fereldan accented voice came from the side of Greagoir, he turned and recognized the source of the voice to be Knight-Corporal Brandon Swift.

Swift was under Nymeria's command. He was one of Nymeria's Strays, one of those new to the Order that Nymeria chose to take under her wing, usually those from poor backgrounds or backwater minor noble families. Swift had come from Honnleath, joining the Templar Order to escape a life otherwise destined to be spent in the fields. Nymeria had noticed him during his training and kept a close eye on his progress, requesting him for her unit almost as soon as he had been officially inducted into the Order.

"What we're waiting for, Knight-Corporal, is for the Knights Divine to finish arguing over who will lead the charge into the fortress." Greagoir dropped down on one knee, removed his helmet, and began to clean his blade, giving his troops the unspoken permission to do the same.

"Sir, aren't you doing that?" Swift removed his helmet and began to perform field maintenance on his armor.

"No, we only had permission to take the beach and clear the way for the siege weapons." Greagoir gritted his teeth, we would have already broken through the gates and be pushing their way into the tower proper by now, if I had my way, he thought.

"But, why" Swift asked as he oiled the joints of his armor.

"Politics, dear corporal, there is no glory to be found by storming a beach under arrow fire, so it does not matter to the Knight-Vigilant and the Knights Divine who leads the vanguard in that endeavor. The glory lies within the fortress, where the actual battle will take place, and thus that is where things become political, whoever succeeds in leading the assault will gain prestige, and prestige can be turned into political clout. It's all part of the Grand Game." Nymeria spun her blades in her hands, the easy smile on her face causing Greagoir's jaw to relax, he could never stay angry around her and she knew it. Evil, manipulative, far too charming and beautiful woman, Greagoir thought.

"So, if you don't mind me asking sir, who's going to be leading us then?" There was a small dent on the shoulder plate, Swift noticed, best get that fixed, he thought.

A new voice came from behind them, answering the question for Greagoir.

"Why, of course it will be Greagoir my dear boy, what would the Order do without their fearless battering ram pushing the way forward and smashing down the doors of innocent millers." The new voice gave a small, fake, cough, "Oh sorry, I meant blood mages, evil nasty blood mages who have the ability to disappear, leaving innocent millers in their place."

"Hello Irving" Greagoir said without looking up from his sword, the deepening of his scowl broadening the smile on the First Enchanter's face.

"Hello Greagoir, Knight-Corporal Swift, delightful to meet you, you're one of Nymeria's Strays, are you not?" Swift gave a low growl, there were only a few people who could get away with referring to him as a 'Stray' and Irving wasn't one of them.

"Watch what you say Irving, even a lion cub has claws." Nymeria strode up to Irving and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks in typical Orlesian greeting. A display that would have been drawn scandalized gasps among nobility barely drew any more than a few amused grunts from the templars on the battlefield. Nymeria did whatever she wanted, this fact was acknowledged by every one from Knight-Corporal Swift to the Divine herself.

"Ah Knight-Captain Nymeria, a pleasure as always" Irving chuckled before continuing.

"Now where was I, oh yes, the miller swapping dissapearance spell is as powerful as magic can be, it takes a mage of god-like abilities and a legion's worth of blood sacrifices to accomplish."

"I was one door off, by the Maker Irving, you talk of it like we were in the wrong village. The blood mages were two doors down from the tavern, not three." Greagoir shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. Most mages cower in fear of templars, how did I end up with the one with a sense of humor, he thought.

"Yes, and then the Pride demon exploded out of the building next to us and you would've gotten crushed by a beam had I not drawn up a barrier around us." Irving let out yet another chuckle as he remembered Greagoir's shocked look at the massive pride demon

"Yes, and I believe that is when you shouted, 'shove your sword in it, hit it with your shield, just do something you oaf', not your finest moment either Irving." Greagoir actually smiled as Irving's grin faltered.

"Mage, what do you think you're doing here? And what makes you think that you're allowed to disrespect a brother of the Order?" This new voice came from yet another templar marching up the beach.

"Oh, I apologize oh supreme overlord, how dare I not bow to my slavemasters." Irving's voice dripped with sarcasm, incensing the templar.

"You filthy spellbinder, I'll show you for disrespecting me!" The templar threw a haymaker aimed directly at Irving's face.

"Stop!" Greagoir caught the arm around the man's elbow and yanked it back, spinning the other templar around and throwing the man off balance.

"What is wrong with you? Why'd you stop me? Who do you think you are, you mage lover?" The man launched into a torrent of Orlesian curses at Greagoir.

"I am Greagoir Howe, Knight-Commander of the Circle of Magi of Fereldan, the man you were speaking to is Irving of Amaranthine, First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi of Fereldan, that man has done more for the Order, the Circle, and for the Chantry than you can ever hope to accomplish and you will address both him and myself with the respect we have earned, or so help me, I shall shove my sword so far down your throat that Antivan whores will turn green with envy. Do you understand me?" The young Orlesian templar was visibly shaken at being torn down by a renowned knight-commander, he nodded.

"Good, now get out of my sight." The young man snapped out a hasty and awkward salute before outright fleeing towards the area where laborers were hastily assembling a camp.

"Aw Greagoir, I didn't know you cared" Irving said with mock affectation, leaning upon his staff and maintaining a straight face.

"Don't let it go to your head Irving, the little bastard was disrespecting both of us and I don't tolerate disrespectful bastards in the Order, otherwise I would've let him hit you. Maker knows you could use a good knock to the head." Greagoir saw the smile on Nymeria's face and knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth, a rare occurrence.

"That and the fact that no one messes with our mage except for us, besides, Greagoir is very attractive when he is angry, no?" Leave it to Nymeria to say something like that at a time like this, Greagoir thought as he tried to hide the fact that he was blushing.

"Knight-Commander Gre-" yet another voice called from behind them.

"What is it now? I swear, is this a battlefield or an Orlesian ball, because by the sheer number of people who keep walking up to us, it seems like the latter." Greagoir spun around to face the messenger that he had sent running earlier. The messenger seemed nervous, shifting from one foot to the other where he stood and refusing to meet Greagoir's gaze.

"Knight-Commander Greagoir, on the authority of The Knight-Vigilant, you are hereby given command authority over the securing of Black Moon Fortress, the elimination of all heretical forces within, and the capture of any and all non-corrupted mages. Do you accept this burden?" The messenger was obviously repeating exactly what he had been told; he seemed desperate to seem authoritative, desperate to hide his inexperience among the veterans.

Greagoir smiled, a small dark smirk reserved for war, and looked from Irving, to Nymeria, to Swift, his gaze moving to every templar under his command, and he found that same smirk on each of their faces.

"I accept, direct all forces into assault positions, we attack on my signal." The messenger scampered off once more and Greagoir's troops began to form up, taking positions behind him, Nymeria and Irving moved to stand by his side at the front.

"Ready Irving?" Greagoir said as he held up his shield.

"As always brother, let's get this over with." Irving spun his staff into a two handed grip, electricity crackling across it's length.

"Nymeria?"

"Of course my lion" Nymeria tightened her grip on her daggers.

"Alright then" Greagoir raised his sword.

"TEMPLARS!"

"FORWARD, FOR THE ORDER, FOR THE CHANTRY!" The siege weapons began to roll forth, the sound of metal boots marching on the hard stone became almost deafening.

"FOR ANDRASTE, FOR THE MAKER" Greagoir screamed.

"FOR THE MAKER" chorused the army behind him.

Greagoir muttered under his breath.

"May he preserve us."

….

Lucia glided across the stone floor, the raven haired elf moved with a careful grace that spoke of her years of training. When she reached her intended destination, a door at the end of the hallway, she was greeted by two bowing guards. She paid them little heed, retrieving a key from one of the many hidden pockets in her black jerkin, and used it to undo the lock on the door. The room beyond was spartan, all evidence of the previous rituals moved out and destroyed. Two hooded men stood in the center staring down at the fruit of their many months of labor, as well as the lives of several of their best assassins.

"Lady Lucia, I believe that now would be a most opportune time to make our departure." The first man spoke without looking up at her. At that moment, the entire room seemed to shake, a trebuchet stone hit the inner wall, Lucia guessed. The hooded men didn't seem the slightest bit perturbed by the reminder of the Templar army that was invading the fortress.

"I most agree Lord Drago, but first, there are a few loose ends left to deal with" Lucia said, the r's rolling with her Antivan accent. The blades seemed to appear in her hands, as if by magic. They were small, razor sharp knives interconnected by ethereal strands of silverite wire, as strong as the bades with an edge to match.

"Agreed, I am sorry Aldo." Drago's arm was a blur, the red hilt of a dagger protruded from the man's neck before the words even registered with the master assassin. The man was dead within seconds, the poison had most likely killed him before the bleeding

"A shame, Aldo was one of the finest bodyguards that I have ever had." Drago turned away from the freshly made corpse and back to the fruit of their labors. A moment of silence passed in the room, dead silence.

"Aldo wasn't the only loose end you were speaking of, was he?" Drago didn't turn to look at her, his voice betrayed nothing, nothing but that unflappable calm that never seemed to leave him.

"No" Lucia said as she slowly rolled the knives, wrapping the wire around her hands, tightening it. The only reason her hands weren't being cut to ribbons were her wyvern scale gloves.

"I have no way out?" There was no hope in his voice, no despair, he didn't turn around, he didn't look for exits or ready weapons, he didn't react at all.

"No" Lucia knew she should have moved by now, she wasn't worried about him fighting back or getting away, she had prepared for both of those, there truly wasn't a way out for him, but she had a schedule to keep. Still, this man deserved respect.

"Good, I didn't train you to make mistakes." Drago smiled slightly, allowing a small show of pride in his former pupil to slip past his facade.

"No, you didn't." Lucia took a step forward, towards Drago, towards her target.

"We weren't meant for this, you and I. That which makes us the grandest of assassins is also what drags us down. We have the souls of artists, yet instead of creating beauty, we create masterstrokes of death. We weren't meant to be Crows Lucia, but you and I, we are what we have been made, and there is no going back for us, we have no choice in what we are, I know it and so do you." Drago's façade finally broke, the sadness in his voice was as evident as the blood that was steadily spreading from Aldo's corpse.

"No, we don't, but she does have a choice." Lucia advanced another step, the wire now wound into a strong garrote.

"Ah, her, you always have been compassionate, far more compassionate than what one can normally expect from the Second Talon of the Antivan Crows. As for the girl, she will be grander than all of us, it's in her blood."

"Maybe, but it will be her fate to decide for herself, she will have a choice, I will make sure of it." Another step, she was merely a few feet from him, his back was still turned to her.

"I pray that you are right, I pray that she has her mother's soul. Now, you have been polite enough to listen to an old man's ramblings, by all means, finish your masterpiece." Drago felt Lucia slip the garrote around his neck the instant that he finished speaking. She pulled it tight, his airway constricted and blood began to flow from where the wire cut into his neck. His hood fell back to reveal a man in his sixties, silver haired and wrinkled, but still handsome in his way. As was the way of the Crows, the poison worked faster than the edge, and within less than a minute Lord Drago, First Talon of the Antivan Crows, formerly known as Amedo of Antiva City, self proclaimed son of courtesans, was dead.

Lucia stopped a tear from forming, blinking it away.

"Never cry for the dead, bella, they are the lucky ones. They are allowed to slip away, while we must struggle forth" Amedo told her once early on in her training, before he became Drago, before he became First Talon.

"Goodbye, Amedo, thank you for everything, and… and…" Lucia was about to apologize, but it caught in her throat, no apologies, she thought. That would be disrespect.

The happy burble of an infant pierced the somber mood, the contrast palpable. Lucia eased Amedo's body to the floor, laying it down gently, reverently. She slipped the wire from the his neck and stood once more, letting the wires and the knives fall, untangling themselves only to disappear into her sleeves once more. Lucia looked down into the cradle at the raven haired Elvin infant; a few drops of Amedo's blood had dripped onto the girl's giggling face.

"Shh, Ma da'mi" Lucia said as she wiped the blood away with her sleeve.

"Time for us to leave da'len" She swaddled the girl in the cradle's blankets and knotted them into a sling that she slipped over her head and around her torso.

Lucia turned and glided over to the door, cracking it open, slipping out, and shutting it behind her.

"Goodbye gentlemen" Lucia said without stopping. Then, when she was a few feet away from and they were moving after her, she spun on her heel and hurled the blades at the two guards. Each blade struck its' target, landing in the each man's neck. As soon as the blood began to flow out of the wound, the blades were yanked away, flying back into the Elvin assassin's sleeves on the wires attached to them, retracting into the Dwarven mechanisms that held both the blades and the wire.

Lucia continued on her way, opening the throats of any Crows that she encountered until she reached a dead end. Lucia pressed down on a seemingly random series of uneven stones, and a part of the wall slid away revealing a stairwell. Lucia stepped into the stairwell and disappeared as the section of wall slid back into place.

….

"Keeper Mahariel, we must leave, now!" Marethari, First of clan Sabrae, screamed. The terror on the young woman's face was obvious as she sprinted into the courtyard.

"The shem army has pushed through the main bailey and taken the great hall. They are surging through the halls, the guards are holding in most places, but their line has broken in this wing, the shem were right behind me, they will be here in a few minutes." Marethari said in alarm.

Mahariel looked at his First, then looked at the door, doing a simple calculation in his head. After a moment, he came to a conclusion and began to take off his ring.

"Is my son safe?" Mahariel's thoughts immediately turned to his son, Corthal, as he slipped his staff from the sheathe on his back

"Yes, Keeper, they await you at the Deep Roads entrance." Marethari kept looking from the keeper to the door, the door that she was sure would soon burst open to allow a horde of shemlen in to slay her.

"Good, Ashalle, go with her, tell them to leave without me." Mahariel said to the Dalish archer standing next to him as he shoved his ring and staff into Marethari's startled hands.

"Keeper, b-but these are yours, I c-can't, I mean-" realization dawned on Marethari as she spoke.

"Theron, you can't, the clan needs you, Corthal needs you!" Ashalle begged, she knew that if they left without them, they were leaving him to die. She also knew that he had figured this out for himself already.

"The clan needs Corthal, the Dalish need Corthal, all of Elvhen needs Corthal, and if I don't hold them here, then these len'alas lath'din will take Corthal. They will toss him into an alienage and turn him into a flat-eared knee-bender, they will take his destiny, and they will make all of the work we have done over the past few years mean nothing. I will not allow that for my son, or for my people. Now go, make my sacrifice worth it." Theron Mahariel, Keeper of the Sabrae Clan , turned his back on his clan mates and turned to face the oncoming horde.

"Ashalle, we can't let him do this" Marethari pleaded with Ashalle.

Ashalle knew Marethari, she knew that the woman would never abandon Mahariel, not willingly, but Ashalle had known Theron since they were children, and she knew him well enough to know that he had set his course, and there was no way of changing it.

Most importantly, Ashalle had been a huntress since she was a child and warleader of her clan for most of her adult life. she had dedicated her life to defending her clan. She had fought in dozens of skirmishes against every possible threat to her clan, so she knew that if Theron was right, and that if they wanted to get out of that fortress alive and with their freedom, they needed him to buy them time.

Ashalle kept this in mind as she slammed the side of her fist into Marethari's temple. She tossed the smaller woman over her shoulder and looked at Theron.

"Dareth shiral ma sa'lath." Theron gave her one last smile, the same mischievous smile that he used to have when he stole sweets from the hearthmistress when they were children.

"Tel'abelas ma vhenan, halam'shivanas. Fen'Haral enansal." Theron turned away from her for the final time. A moment later, he heard her footsteps as she sprinted away. Suddenly the oak doors to the courtyard exploded, and templars began pouring in.

"We are the Dalish." Theron raised his hands, channeling all of his energy into the earth, sensing the roots of the trees and the bushes of the courtyard, drawing upon their power, and finally, channeling it.

"Keepers of the lost lore" roots surged up, breaking through the stone pathways of the courtyard. They tripped templars, seized their legs, and as the warriors of the Chantry fell, the roots drug them, screaming into the earth.

"Walkers of the lonely path" Theron raised his hands skyward, calling upon the spirits, then slammed them into the earth, forcing the spirits into the roots. The two massive sylvan wood trees that stood beside the entrance to the courtyard uprooted themselves. The great branches of the trees swept down, slamming the templars that poured through the doors to the ground, where they were crushed by the roots of the sylvans. A chantry mage tried to throw ball of fire at one of the sylvans, only for it to pick him up before he could finish the spell. The twisted knots that formed the things face regarded him curiously, then the mage let out a cry for help that quickly turned into a death rattle as the sylvan's branch clenched, crushing the mage. The tree tossed the mage away, sending him flying across the courtyard like a rag doll.

"We are the last of the Elvhenan" the torrent of Chantry soldiers seemed to trickle to a stop, Theron knew that he had not won, he knew that was an impossibility. A wave of flame erupted from the doorway, followed by lightning, then ice, a storm of the elements flowed forth from the entrance, destroying his sylvans. The mages advanced out of the entry way, staves raised, ready to stop whatever bolts of magic or incantations that he might throw at them.

"And never again shall we submit" Theron smiled, a dark and predatory grin.

He had no need for bolts, or incantations, no need of any Chantry magic.

He had nature on his side.

Theron channeled his energy into the vines on the trellis above the doorway, the mages flinched as he threw his palms outward, toward the trellis, they tensed, expecting lightning, or fire, something they were familiar with.

They were looking in the wrong direction.

The vines on the trellis snaked downward, slowly and silently slithering through the air. Then they struck like vipers, surprising the mages and wrapping around their necks like anacondas. Their staffs clattered on the stone, dropped as the shocked mages were dragged upward, legs kicking, hands clawing at the thick vines, then finally hanging limp as their necks broke and they died.

"Never again shall we submit" Theron called again to his foes. No more templars came out of the door way, no more mages, and for a moment all was quiet.

Theron never saw the blade that struck the killing blow, he just felt the bolt of hot pain in his back, followed by the numbness that told him that death was close.

"Emma revas" Theron said with his dying breath. The last thing that he saw was a woman with long blonde hair, dressed in the armor of a templar.

….

"Eeeeyah" the mercenary yelled as he charged Greagoir with a spear, Greagoir side stepped past the man and drove his sword into the man's back. They were in what appeared to be the main hall of the fortress, the templar vanguard had taken the hall quickly and split their forces into three groups, one to assault the west wing of the fort, one to assault the east wing, and a small group to hold the hall, as it was the only way for the rest of the army to enter the fortress. It was an aggressive strategy, but it had it's risks.

Risks that had made Greagoir very glad that he had stayed in the great hall to set up his forward command post.

Almost as soon as the two groups had moved into the wings, all of the doors to the hall had slammed shut, and seemingly out of nowhere dozens of mercenaries had appeared, and Greagoir quickly found that his forces, mostly consisting of the least experienced troops of the vanguard, were surrounded.

Greagoir had immediately ordered his forces into a double-circle formation, those with shields and swords forming the perimeter, with archers forming up the interior circle. As the mercenaries advanced, he ordered his archers to begin firing flaming arrows at the enemy. Just as he expected, as soon as a few of the enemy soldiers were on fire and screaming, they tried to rush Greagoir's position, where Greagoir's men could put up a coordinated defense. Soon enough, any advantage in numbers that the enemy had was gone, and he ordered his men to press the attack and kill the, now scattered and demoralized mercenaries.

As the last enemy fell, Greagoir called to his men to reopen the doors to the main bailey. Before any of his men could move, the doors exploded open in a rain of splinters. Through the dust and smoke, emerged First Enchanter Irving, along with Senior Enchanter Wynne, and a number of other mages. Greagoir pulled off his helmet and dropped it on the ground.

"This is why when I tell you to wait for the mages to tend to the wounded instead of advancing and expecting us to catch up, you should listen." Irving's face was covered in ash and grime, his robes were sodden with dirt and mud, the bladed tip of his staff was coated in so much blood that the metal looked like it was painted crimson.

"Too much, huh, excitement, huh, for you to, huh, handle Irving?" Greagoir panted, doubled over, he felt exhausted. Strange, he thought, I can last a lot longer than this, or, at least, I should be able to. Greagoir stood and tried to move towards the first enchanter. He succeeded only in taking a few steps and staggering into Irving.

"Greagoir" Irving said tentatively as he moved to support Greagoir, "There's an arrow in your back, stabbing you in what I'm fairly sure is your lung."

"What are you talking abo-" Greagoir coughed, flinging specks of crimson blood onto his gauntlet, "well shit".

"Wynne, we're going to need your help." Irving beckoned for a woman in her mid-thirties dressed in the robes of a senior enchanter. The first enchanter helped Greagoir to a one of the stone benches that lined the hall.

"We need to get this arrow out." Irving said as Wynne moved to examine the wound.

"Here, I'll handle that" Greagoir said, grimacing as the battle-high began to wear off. He reached behind his back to grab the arrow, only to have Wynne swat his hand away with an admonishing cluck.

"Don't you dare, ripping it away like an old scab will only make it worse, let me." Wynne commanded the knight-commander. She spoke a few words in ancient Tevene and her hands took on an emerald glow that spread around the arrow. The senior enchanter closed her eyes, focusing entirely on the arrow, allowing a picture to form in her mind of how it sat within the wound. She brought her hands together to form a circle around the shaft, careful not to actually touch it, then Wynne slowly pulled her hands back, moving from the entry wound to the fletching. As she did this, the arrow began to slide out, retracing it's entry exactly, so as not to cause any more damage. Finally the arrow slid free with a small, bloody, squelch. Irving caught the arrow before it could clatter to the floor.

"This wound did a great deal of damage, it will take a few minutes to heal properly" Wynne said. "And sit still" Wynne commanded when Greagoir tried to take the arrow from Irving. Wynne closed her eyes again and turned her focus to the wound itself, feeling the intricacies of it, allowing a new picture of the wound to form in her mind. Ancient Tevene flowed from her lips once more and her hands gained a blue aura. Then she began to change the image in her mind, willing the tissue and sinews to knit back together and the damaged rib to mend. While she worked, Greagoir and Irving turned their attention to the arrow and their current situation.

"A fine make, a bodkin point on an elf-flight arrow. The arrowhead is definitely Dwarven Smith Caste, Paragon's Luster and Serpentstone alloy from the feel of it. The rest of the arrow is authentic Dalish, ironbark shaft with hawk feather fletching." Irving held the arrow close, looking some kind of maker's mark.

"Dwarven smiths and Dalish fletchers, can't say that I saw that shop the last time I was in Denerim. Short of the Divine's dress maker deciding to hire on a Qunari armorer, those two are the least likely groups of craftsmen I'd expect to collaborate" Greagoir said, trying his best to remain still while the magic healed him.

"I agree, which makes me think that we might be dealing with even more than we thought." Irving slipped the arrow into one of the many satchels that hung from his belt.

"We thought that we were dealing with a group of well funded maleficar that had secured themselves within a fortress, that's a problem enough in itself. Now it looks like they have more backers than we thought." Greagoir looked at the corpses of the mercenaries, they were well armed, but the mistakes they had made didn't make sense. Anyone with the coin to outfit these men would have the coin to hire professionals, he thought.

"If whatever they were working on here is enough to get the dwarves and the elves together, then we need to secure it, very, very quickly." Irving could think of five possible relics or magical rituals that might be able to unite those two groups, he wasn't comfortable with them being in anyone's hands, much less a group of apostates that were probably whoring it out to the highest bidder.

"Agreed, give me a report on what happened to you and your people in the bailey." Greagoir could now feel the urgency of his task in the front of his mind instead of the back.

"The archway behind us collapsed, sealing the gates, then a nasty little ambush by a group of crossbowmen took out our templar escorts. As said nasty little crossbowmen quickly learned, I can hit an enemy with chain lightning a great deal faster than one can reload a crossbow." Irivng's smile at the mention of the deaths by electrocution he had inflicted brought grimaces to the faces of several templars in the room.

"The forces that tried to surround us on the ground fared no better" Irving motioned with his head to the crimson coated blade of his staff.

"I'm not going to like the reason as to why you don't have new templars replacing the ones that were lost, am I?" Greagoir was suddenly very thankful for the layer of non-conductive material that sat under the metal of his armor.

"No, no, not even slightly, the bricks that block the gates are all enchanted with fire glyphs, if anyone touches them or tries to move them, they explode, Cunning little bastards, these apostates." Small bolts of electricity arced up Irving's arms, startling the few templars standing near him enough to take a step back.

"So we're cut off from the main army. Irving, are we on the same page?" Greagoir already knew the answer to his question, others would have thought the small lightning bolts to be some kind of joke, or that Irving's exhaustion was causing him to lose control of his magic. Greagoir knew better; Irving's magic always betrayed what his behind the smirk on his face.

"Why in Thedas aren't they rushing us while they have the chance?" the lighning slightly intensified, making the air around the first enchanter crackle.

"Exactly what I'm wondering, we're isolated, we're divided, and we have a fair number of wounded. So why are they giving us time to lick our wounds, it just doesn't make sense, unless?" Greagoir's jaw dropped as realization dawned on him

"It's a Maker-damned fighting retreat!" Irving exclaimed; full blown lightning bolts cascaded down his body, scorching the floor around him. Only the enchanted fabric kept his robes from bursting into flame.

"Agreed mon ami" said Knight-Captain Nymeria, who suddenly appeared in front of a fresco on the far wall.

"Nymeria, where'd you come from?" Greagoir was so startled by his lover's sudden appearance that he attempted to jump to his feet, only to be pushed back down by Wynne.

"Hold it now, just one more minute, if you tear this open again before I finish then you'll just have to deal with it bleeding and festering" Wynne tutted at Greagoir. Greagoir looked indignantly at Wynne, but did as he was told. He turned his attention back to Nymeria as Wynne returned to work.

"Where is your division Nymeria?"

"I left them under the command of our dear young friend, Swift." Her calm tone and collected demeanor was highlighted by her immaculate armor, somehow free of the blood and grime that coated everyone else, and the fact that unlike the other templars she wore no helmet, allowing her platinum blonde hair to hang halfway down her back.

"You don't even slightly care about the protocols surrounding the chain of command, do you Meri?" Greagoir face showed anger, but his eyes betrayed amusement.

"Swift is by far the most qualified among that group to lead, and besides, he's one of mine." Nymeria's tone was indignant, but it held no venom to Greagoir. This was the game they played in public, many who didn't know them very well assumed that they hated each other.

"Either way, tell us what you found that would drag you away from your troops." Irving said, bringing them back to the matter at hand.

"I found a series of tunnels hidden between the walls."

"Tevinters do love their fortresses to be chock full of secret tunnels, don't they?" Irving mused, folding his arms over his staff.

"Explains how they just seemed to appear out of nowhere and ambush us" Greagoir said, scanning the walls for possible entrances.

"I followed the tunnels through and found a series of empty rooms."

"They've been cleaning the place out" said Irving.

"They knew that we were coming." Greagoir grimaced, he hated knowing that they had walked right into a trap.

"Well, it wasn't like we were being subtle, sending an army of over 8,000 templars cannot be called a covert action. A few dozen Seekers or Hunters could have handled this far better and far more quietly."

"I would expect profiteering, but there wasn't a massive supply build up, no big lyrium buy-up for the high ranking templars to profit off of. No foreign armies volunteering to help that the Lucrosians could deal a few hundred thousand sovereigns worth of Formari weapons and armor to." Irving started to crackle with electricity again.

"None of this makes anything close to sense, but we can worry about that later. When I was in the passages, I found a private bedroom, very well hidden and with more than a few lethal traps. There were some documents that you'll want to see." Nymeria pulled three folded up papers out of a small compartment in her armor and handed one to Greagoir and one to Irving.

"A Deep Roads entrance below the tower, clever bastards" Irving said, looking down at a map of the fortress.

"Two 'assets' kept in a safe room near the top, both marked as critically important, both under the direct supervision of Revka Amell." Greagoir read the registry; it showed a number of unimportant items such as armor, alchemical components, books, and weapons. Nothing significant except for two items marked M and E that only Revka Amell had permission to access.

"And to top it off, someone known only as 'The Pretender' apparently has a personal laboratory at the very top of the tower." Nymeria held up an internal memorandum.

"Is 'The Pretender' capitalized?" Irving asked.

"Yes" Nymeria said, knowing exactly what that meant.

"That's the leader" Greagoir and Irving said at the same time.

"So what do we do?" Irving's brushed one hand down his sleeve, cutting off the electricity.

"We'll need to pull the divisions under Swift and Befort back and reorganize. Split our forces, half go up after the safe room and the leader, half go down to cut off their escape into the Deep Roads." Greagoir looked back at Wynne.

"Are you done yet?"

"Yes, though you could stand to be a bit more polite, manners cost nothing, you know." Wynne stepped back, allowing Greagoir to stand.

"I'm afraid we might run into a petit problem. Dear Knight-Captain Befort attempted a frontal assault on a Dalish Keeper in a courtyard full of sylvan wood trees." Nymeria pursed her lips; any experienced templar would equate what she had described as suicide.

"How many men did Befort get killed?" Greagoir spoke the words in the same way he would draw a blade.

"His entire division, including himself" Nymeria said, Greagoir slammed his fist into a pillar.

"We won't have enough men to hit both targets." Irving began running scenarios in his mind, trying to plan out a new course of action.

"Damn it, I know that Irving." Greagoir's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

"So which one do we go after" Irving asked.

"The Deep Roads, we need to cut off their escape." Greagoir stopped his pacing and turned to Irving.

"We need to secure whatever they have locked up in that safe room. Anything important enough to warrant all of this" Irving motioned to fortress around them and the dead mercenaries on the floor, "Is too important to let slip away.

"If we cut off their escape, then they'll have nowhere to take the artifacts, or whatever they are." Greagoir threw the words at Irving like a punch.

"You and I both know that if they're storing something important that far away from their main escape route, they have a backup plan" Irving countered, sending a verbal strike of his own.

"If we don't cut off their escape, then the majority will get away" Greagoir said and crossed his arms, sending a stony glare Irving's way.

"The majority don't matter, the odds of them being able to pull together the resources they have here is astronomical. We need to secure the artifacts." Irving locked eyes with Greagoir, ready for a full-blown battle of wills.

"Gentlemen, if I may interrupt, while you bicker, both of the things that you are arguing about stopping are happening." Irving and Greagoir turned and stared at Senior Enchanter Wynne in surprise. They had forgotten about the large group of templars and mages surrounding them.

"The senior enchanter makes a very good point, if I may propose a compromise. We pull back Swift and send his forces down after the Deep Roads entrance while we go after the artifacts, as you two have seemed to agree to call them, and take out the leader of this lovely little band of mercenaries and maleficar." Nymeria's face had returned to the pleasant, easygoing, smile that she usually wore.

"So you want the three of us to go off on our own after two possible magical super weapons, a legendary apostate, and someone who was able to get both said legendary apostate and a horde of mercenaries and maleficar to help him create said magical super weapons." Irving looked at Nymeria incredulously.

"While sending an, admittedly gifted, amateur after said horde of mercenaries and maleficar" Greagoir said while questioning, not for the first time, what he had to done to be deemed worthy of a woman who was essentially the Maker's wrath in female form.

"Yes, any problems?"

"No, that seems to be our usual modus operandi, I was just making sure that we were all clear on the plan" Irving responded with a manic grin. "Have any problems with the new plan, Knight-Commander Howe?"

"No, like you said, it seems like an average Tuesday evening for us, but if this 'Pretender' or whoever pulls a high dragon out of their ass. I'm going to be very annoyed." Greagoir said, demonstrating his mastery of understatement.

It was at that moment that Knight-Corporal Swift and his division of templars came bursting into the room.

"Knight-Commander Greagoir" Swift yelled as he sprinted into the room. Swift charged through the assembled mages and templars directly to Greagoir

"Sir, we need reinforcements, the division was put under my command by Knight-Captain Valmont."

"I know that Swift" Greagoir motioned towards the knight-captain, who now stood next to them with an amused grin on her face. The knight-corporal turned a deep red, but kept focused on the matter at hand.

"Sir, we were moving through the tower and we found what appeared to be some kind of bestiary. They have two high dragons in there, sir." Greagoir scowled, Nymeria's hands went to her daggers.

Irving let out a mad cackle and put into words what they were all thinking.

"Absolutely, fucking, perfect"

….

He stood shrouded in the darkness of the tunnels. He was eight feet tall, taller than any human, and thin. Ragged robes and armor hung from him, just enough of them remained to remind others of their former glory. On closer inspection, one could see that parts of the ensemble were bonded into his skin. He had a face that some might have considered to be monstrously handsome, but any hair he might have was hidden under his cowl. His arms were unnaturally long and his legs were hidden under the robes. His hands were long with claw-like fingers, elegant and bestial at the same time.

A dozen hurlocks stood arrayed at his flanks, their armor and weapons, however, distinguished them from their normal tainted brethren. They were Dwarven made and well tailored to its blighted bearers, not the rough, crude, forging of darkspawn smiths, and too well fitting to be battle trophies.

He had forgotten his name, long ago. He never bothered to try to rediscover it, but he had found that to interact with beings that weren't darkspawn, he needed one.

"Lord… Lucas?" The young, human man before him cringed as he spoke, as though he expected to be struck down at any moment. He probably does, Lucas mused.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" Lucas stepped out of the shadows into the light of the glowstones. He thought being more easily seen would put the human at ease.

He was wrong; the human recoiled away from him in horror before realizing that he might be displeasing the massive darkspawn in front of him.

"I-I-I was told t-to take this to y-you." The man held up what looked like a small bundle of blankets.

"You mean her." Lucas said as he took the Dwarven baby girl from the human, carefully cradling the girl in one of his arms.

"Huh" the human seemed shocked at the reply.

"The little girl, you referred to her as 'this', her name is Mera." The little girl in question lay sound asleep, a weak sleep spell keeping her in ignorant bliss, oblivious to the world around her.

"O-O-Oh of c-course, I-I-I'm s-sorry sir, I mean milord, I mean-" Lucas raised his empty hand to get him to stop.

"Tell me, do you know what little Mera's purpose is? And before you say anything, I can assure you that her purpose is not dietary." Lucas scowled, the facial expression seemed somehow enhanced by the taint. He had never eaten any humans, dwarves, qunari, or elves in his life and he did not like the fact that most assumed he did merely because of what he was.

"N-No sir"

"So what do you know of my involvement in this little project?"

"Well sir, I-I know that you traded something for her, something really valuable." The human was careful to avoid meeting Lucas's eyes.

"Do you know what I traded that was so valuable that it was worth a child?" Lucas's piercing gaze told the human that lying would not be a very good idea right now.

"W-Well sir, only r-r-rumors, b-b-but, I-I mean, er" The human stammered, looking around and trying to make himself seem as small as possible.

"Come on, out with it, if you know, then say it, if not then simply say that you don't know." Lucas said impatiently, quietly hoping that the man would say that he didn't know anything.

"A supply of untainted old god blood" the human finally exclaimed.

"Ah, well I hope you know that I'm truly sorry about this." Lucas's unused hand shot out unnaturally fast, his claw-like fingers wrapped around the man's head, and with one quick jerk, he snapped the human's neck.

"Such a waste, I never even learned the poor boy's name." Lucas said looking down at the freshly made corpse.

"To ensure total secrecy, sacrifices must be made, and without total secrecy everything that we've done up to this point means nothing. What's one life in exchange for a better world?" The man stepped forward from behind the ranks of the hurlocks, his armor was silverite, in the style common to the smiths of the Anderfels. His face was hidden under a dark blue hood.

"It has cost more than one." Lucas shook his head, thinking of all who had to die for this cause. "That question is the basis of the entire order, isn't it" Lucas turned back to the man behind him.

"It doesn't matter, let's stop wasting time." The hooded man spun around and started moving in the opposite direction.

"Agreed" Lucas turned and followed the hooded man deeper into the Deep Roads, his darkspawn honor guard falling in step behind them.

….

"Pride demon versus high dragon"

"High dragon, easy win"

"What? How can you side with beast over a cunning and powerful demon?" Irving asked, shocked.

"A high dragon is stronger, it's claws will cut the demon to shreds up close. If the demon tries to take it on at range, then it's got fire. Plus, pride demons like to use electricity, dragon scales don't conduct electricity, you have to hit 'em in the belly for that to work. And the dragon can fly, more mobility." Greagoir kept his eyes open as they entered a library with empty shelves. They hadn't encountered any enemies so far, but he knew better than to let his guard down based on a stupid detail like that.

They had sent Swift and his division through the east wing, through the path that Knight-Captain Befort had sacrificed his division clearing. Greagoir, Nymeria, and Irving used the passages to start moving from floor to floor, moving toward the top, which had led them to the floor that they were currently on.

"Pride demons are tricky though, they like to play mind games and get others to do their bidding, they'd bring allies to help take down the dragon." Irving felt a disturbance in the wards he was projecting around them. He spun around and hurled a fire ball in the direction of the disturbance.

The fireball struck a dark corner, briefly illuminating the form of a crouched man holding twin daggers. Said crouched man screamed in agony and leapt into the torchlight where he began rolling on the floor trying desperately to get the magic fire extinguished, until Irving put him out of his misery with a lightning bolt. His body twitched and jittered oddly for a moment, before growing still.

"Did you have to make it so loud? Everyone form here to Antiva knows where we are now." Greagoir raised his shield and sword, scanning for any other opponents.

"Darling, you worry too much." Nymeria pulled two throwing daggers from sheaths on her belt and threw each into a separate dark corner, a cry of pain came from one and a gasp came from the other, followed by the satisfying thuds of bodies hitting the floor.

"I have to be cautious, otherwise you two would lead u-" Greagoir raised his shield and braced himself just in time to block a would-be assassin. The rouge had jumped off of a book shelf, meaning to catch Greagoir by surprise. Greagoir's block caught the man by surprise and instead of Greagoir's back, his blades slammed into Greagoir's shield, knocking the blades out of his grasp, just before his face became very well acquainted with the shield. Greagoir shrugged the man off and drove his sword through the, now prone, man's back for good measure.

"Lead us into even more annoying situations." Greagoir finished.

"Nobody move or magey here gets it." The voice was female with a northern Fereldan accent. Nymeria and Greagoir turned in it's direction to see an attractive young woman, half dressed in a strange menagerie of armor and lingerie, holding a knife to a mildly annoyed Irving's neck.

"Miss, I recommend putting down the knife, it's rather obvious that you weren't expecting a fight. You look a bit more like a courtesan than a mercenary." Irving took in the lithe body of the girl with the blade, definitely someone's mistress, he thought.

"So what's it to you magey, just cause I charge for it don't mean I can't use a knife." The prostitute pressed the blade harder against his neck to prove her point.

"Demoiselle, simply put the knife down, we aren't here to hurt bystanders" Nymeria said in a calming tone.

"So I'm not good enough for you, eh? Not good enough to get into the secret boat, not good enough for the weird religousy people to fight, not good enough for Scrapper to go steady."

"Wait, what was that about a boat" Greagoir asked interrupting the girl's rant of self pity.

"What, oh that, well they fucked me, not in the fun way, and I'm gonna kill you so why not spill it? All the White Knights, or whatever those pretty boys call themselves, soon as you chantry boys smashed the front gate, they all started runnin' for some secret boat in the back, and all the magies ran downstairs for some stupid magey reason. They left all the cheapy swords and the people like me for you chantry types." The girl kept ranting on, going on about some mercenary who refused to do certain acts that should not be discussed in public to her, Greagoir stopped paying attention.

"Nothing we can do about the mercenaries, Irving, stop wasting time, we've got three more floors to go." Greagoir turned and started walking away.

"Agreed mon ami, don't kill the girl Irving, one cannot blame her for her choice of clientele." Nymeria moved to follow Greagoir.

"Where the bloody sod do you think you're go-" The girl was suddenly violently thrown back as Irving hit her with a mind blast spell. The girl slammed into a bookcase and slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Irving quickly caught up with Greagoir and Nymeria, who were now a ways down a hallway.

"So, Legion of the Dead warrior versus Grey Warden"

….

"Has everyone on the list been evacuated?" Katrin stood near the gates to the Deep Roads, Harrowmont stood next to her, both were in full battle regalia, Harrowmont with his hammer and Katrin with her twin swords. Behind them, Katrin's personal guard was in full retreat through the gates.

"Everyone on the list, yes milady, but there are many who aren't on the list. The Tevinters, the mercenaries, the Crows, the Seraultines, not even Lady Amell and his lordship." Genev stood next to Katrin, a quill in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. Genev was careful to refer to The Pretender by the polite term that the various scholars and nobles involved in the project had given him, something about his own chosen title had seemed unnerving to most of them for one reason or another.

"Apparently the others are making use of other avenues of retreat" Katrin said quoting the messenger who had delivered the list a few hours earlier. The list had been delivered as a part of an apparent last minute change of plans. Katrin had been in Dwarven politics her entire life, she knew nugshit when she saw it. The more likely scenario was that there had been no change in plans and that what she had been told was just something to prevent her from questioning it.

"Lord Harrowmont, the queen's guard has completed its retreat, they are well within the Deep Roads and on their way back to Orzammar as we speak." Lord Thorin Helmi, Harrowmont's second, appeared behind them with two crossbowmen.

"Good, come on, let's get moving." Katrin began walking toward the Deep Roads. She had insisted that she be the last one out, she always insisted that she didn't leave until all of those under her command were safe.

"Of course your highness" Lord Helmi said.

Then he drew a knife and sent a hard thrust aimed for Katrin's back.

"NO" Genev screamed, throwing herself between the blade and the queen. Helmi, surprised by the servant's attack, buried the blade hilt deep in Genev's stomach. Katrin spun around just in time to see Genev drive her quill into Helmi's eye.

"Agh, you stupid sodding servant whore" Helmi screamed, stumbling away from Genev.

"Genev!" Rage filled Katrin, she took one step forward and pivoted, adding the force of the spin to the blow, slicing off Helmi's head and sending it rolling away, quill still stuck in it's eye. Moving like water, Katrin flowed around the now headless body of Helmi. A bolt meant for the queen instead struck the body. Katrin thrust a blade through the torso of the corpse and charged the crossbowman, another bolt slammed into the corpse before Katrin's sword impaled one of the crossbowmen.

"For the Ancestors" Lord Harrowmont exclaimed, bringing his hammer down on the, very surprised, other crossbowman.

"Thank you Pyral" Katrin said, pulling her blade from the skewered corpses. A small moan from Genev caused her to rush to the dying girl's side.

Katrin examined the wound, it was surely fatal without immediate attention from a healer, which they didn't have. And the light blue liquid that coated the dagger had to be poison. The girl might last another few hours in agony, but death was assured.

Katrin laid down her swords and drew a dagger from her belt. She knelt beside Genev and clasped the girl's right hand and looked her in the eyes.

"I'm so sorry" Katrin whispered, Genev returned her gaze giving Katrin silent permission to do what they both knew was right.

"Find peace with the Ancestors Genev, I will miss you." Katrin plunged the dagger into Genev's heart. Genev's grip on Katrin's hand tightened for a moment, then went limp.

"A noble sacrifice" Harrowmont said.

"Kalah will be heartbroken when she finds out." Karin stood, forcing tears from her eyes. She would keep it inside until she was alone, only then would she allow herself to mourn.

"I'm so sorry Katrin." That was what tipped her off, Harrowmont hadn't called her Katrin since before she had married Endrin. This revelation came less than a second before the knife slid through a chink in her armor. Katrin gasped and spun around, punching Harrowmont in the jaw, sending him stumbling backward.

"Using your position as second to stab your queen, a paragon queen at that, in the back, and considering the burning feeling around the wound, you've used poison. Where's your Dwarven honor now, Pyral?" Katrin smirked, ignoring the spreading pain around the wound, she knew she was dead, she knew that she wouldn't stand a chance against Harrowmont with the knife in her back and the poison coursing through her. That didn't mean she couldn't make him hurt for it, though.

"I'm doing what I must Katrin, you're dangerous, too dangerous. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn't listen. If I don't stop you now then… then all of Dwarven civilization, millennia of culture and learning, will be destroyed, you… you just need to be forgotten." Harrowmont stepped backward, visibly disturbed by Katrin's smirk.

"Yes, of course, if we don't make sure that a large part of our population is kept in abject poverty, the Stone shall collapse around Orzammar. If we allow outside aid against the darkspawn, then lava shall drown us all. Are you truly that stupid, Pyral?" Katrin could feel the poison, she recognized it, the bastard's using my own poison to kill me, now that's just poetic, she thought.

"Why couldn't you just understand? What ripped away your stone sense? When I introduced you to Endrin, You were perfect for him, a beautiful warrior girl, a freshly minted paragon, perfect to bring the powerful warrior houses behind him, perfect to ensure his rise and perfect to help us ensure the continued glory of the Dwarven Empire." Harrowmont raised his hammer, clutching it as expecting Katrin to attack.

"This is your first time, isn't it" Katrin's smirk widened in amusement.

"Wha-what?" Harrowmont stammered, shocked.

"It is, that's hilarious." Katrin took a step forward, she let her smirk turn into a maniacal grin, hiding surging pain that came with the movement. Harrowmont took four steps back, looking more scared than ever. Katrin continued

"Just to inform you, as a friend, you are really, really bad at this."

Another step, more pain

"You never did like getting your hands dirty, Pyral."

Another step, Harrowmont scuttled back a little further

"That's where you and I differ Pyral, I get my hands dirty. If our places were reversed, you'd be dead on the floor right now, and I would already be gone."

Another step, more pain, more scuttling

"A little friendly advice, for the next time you have to do this."

Another

"First mistake, the poison you used, not such a good choice. It'll kill me, make no mistake, but it's a slow burn. It relaxes the muscles at first, makes you slow and weak, gives the assassin time to get away, but it can take hours to kill. I'll be in agony by the end, but it's a ways off for now."

Another step, Katrin tried to hide how much effort it was taking to keep standing.

"Second mistake, the blade you slipped into me, it's not like your war hammer, it takes precision. I can feel where you stabbed me, it's lethal, but just like the poison, it'll take a while."

Another step, Harrowmont was backed up to the wall of the chamber, a good five steps away from Katrin.

"Third mistake, and this is the most important one. Never let them talk."

The look on Harrowmont's face was one of pure terror, his knuckles were white as he clutched his war hammer and Katrin could see the sweat rolling down his brow.

"What's the matter Pyral? You should be happy, this is your grand coup d'état, your day of triumph. I must admit that this was an excellent move, sloppily executed, but excellent nonetheless. Helmi attempts to assassinate me, if he succeeds then you win and have another ultra conservative with their star tied directly to you, he fails and you kill him and do the deed yourself. You even left yourself a way out, if you got cold feet then you could have simply killed him and his men during and laid the blame squarely on him." The muscle relaxant was really kicking in now, Katrin wanted to collapse, but she knew she couldn't. She had to finish this.

"I die, and you can pick any number of possible murderers to tell Endrin. It all works out perfectly; you can blame my death on this 'wild nug hunt' as you call it, use it as a cautionary tale to help push your isolationist stance and reverse all of the work I've done in the past few years. You knew I'd been making progress with Endrin, he's been sympathizing with the progressives more and more, well this takes care of that. And it keeps my progressive influence from getting to the heirs to the throne, don't lie, I know that's all you see them as. Trian's already a hard line conservative like you and Endrin, but Rana's still young and Bhelen's only a few months old."

"I'm impresses Pyral, I always thought you were too obsessed with your Dwarven honor and pride to pull something like this, but now I realize something." Katrin locked eyes with Harrowmont, hers wild, his widened in terror.

"You're just like me." Katrin began cackling like a lunatic

"No" Harrowmont whispered shaking his head frantically.

"No, I'm nothing like you" his hands trembled, his grip faltered, his war hammer slammed to the ground.

"No" he yelled, Harrowmont turned and fled towards the gates to the Deep Roads, he reached the lever in the tunnel and ripped it down, breaking it off before fleeing down the tunnel. The gates to the Deep Roads slammed shut behind him.

Katrin finally allowed herself to fall to her knees. She knew that the poison worked in stages, she could feel the next stage of the poison coming on, it was moving faster than she anticipated, upside was that it meant that she wouldn't be slowed by the muscle relaxant once the next stage hit, downside was that it meant she had less time. One thought brought a smile to her lips again.

"Forget about me now, jackass" Katrin said, dragging herself up again. There's work to do before you're allowed to die, she thought.

….

The Knight stood in the Pretender's study, watching the old man rifle through an ancient wooden chest. The Knight wore armor of volcanic aurum that displayed the heraldry of Serault. A volcanic aurum shield bearing the mirrored stag of Serault hung on his back and a sword of dragon bone sat sheathed at his hip, gifts from his first sponsor.

Watching the old man in front of him made the Knight wonder what he would look like at that age, if he couldn't reverse his condition. He kept his beard well trimmed and tinged his dark brown hair with grey dye, but he still looked like a man in his early thirties with his smooth skin and warrior's build. When he was being completely honest with himself he could admit that the thought of living that long was both intriguing and horrifying.

"What exactly are you looking for?" The Knight asked, finally growing impatient.

"Nothing, just making sure that everything is in its proper place." The Pretender closed the chest, wrapped the chains around it, and clicked the lock into place. Then he spoke a few words in and ancient tongue that the Knight didn't know and runes flared all along the length of the chest for a second before fading.

"You really should get going, the Order will soon finish with the little distraction you left for them. I highly doubt that the Tevinters will appreciate having their escape route sealed off, magisters generally don't like used as fodder to distract invaders." The Knight looked down through one of the window frames at the beach, where the bulk of the templar forces appeared to be busily doing nothing at all. Not like they have much choice, he thought.

"A group of magisters dying and a group of slaves being liberated are the smallest of the sacrifices that we've had to make today, the only one I'm proud of making." The Pretender turned away from the Knight to stare out at the horizon

"You are the one who needs to get out of here."

"Will the charm work?" The Knight thought of the small bracelet that sat in a hidden compartment in his armor.

"It will" the Pretender replied.

The Knight nodded and turned towards the large mirror that stood in front of one of the window frames. It was tall, almost reaching the ceiling, and about the width of two men. It was very cleary ancient elven in design. Just before stepping through the mirror, he turned to the Pretender and asked one more question.

"What about you?"

A small smile crossed the old man's face when he turned towards the Knight.

"Don't worry about me, I have a meeting to attend."

The Pretender chuckled as the Knight disappeared through the mirror and he returned to his thoughts.

This promised to be a very interesting meeting, very interesting indeed.

….

"Heave, you weak-ass spellbinder, heave" Greagoir yelled.

Irving grunted, and the duo slammed into the door for the third time. Finally the door caved under their combined weight, exploding open in a shower of splinters.

"And that, my dear lady knight, and ox-headed battering ram, is why I hate magic-proof doors." Irving complained as he rubbed his unarmored shoulder.

"I apologize for not assisting mon ami, but bashing in doors is most unladylike, no?" Nymeria's slightly mocking tone caused Greagoir to smile, and Irving to scowl.

"You are truly lucky that I love you like a sister, Valmont. Otherwise, Boom, fireball to the face" Irving grumbled.

"Aww, I love you too mon cheri, let us keep moving, yes?" Nymeria patted Irving's cheek as she glided past, through the doorway.

"You realize that we're basically her willing slaves, right?" Irving turned to Greagoir.

"Willing Irving, keyword, willing" Greagoir countered as the duo moved to follow Nymeria. They were two floors down from the top of the tower, or so the map Irving had found locked in a desk in one of the numerous workshops they had passed through. Most of the rooms had been stripped of anything of value, but they still swept each workshop methodically. They had just moved up a stairwell to the next floor when they hit the magic-proof door.

"Shit" Greagoir said as they entered a new chamber. It was pitch black, the only light came through the doorway from the torches in the stairwell, and that only illuminated an area of a few feet in front of the doorway.

"Here, I can handl-" A block of stone slammed into Irving, cutting him off.

"Show yourself!" Greagoir yelled, bringing up his shield. Greagoir searched the darkness, trying to find an enemy. The darkness concealed all, for some reason his eyes weren't adjusting as they should have been. Probably magic, it's always fucking magic, he thought.

Their attacker threw a fireball in response, Greagoir turned and blocked it with his shield. The knight-commander grunted, the attack had told him two things. One, the darkness had seemed to absorb the light of the fire instead of being dispersed by it, confirming that the darkness was being caused by magic. The second thing the attack told him was that the attacker was smart, many would've assumed the darkness to be enough protection, but the fireball had come from a different direction than the stone that had struck Irving. Either the attacker was moving after each attack, or there was more than one, and if there were two attackers, they wouldn't be attacking one at a time.

Greagoir chanced a look behind him, Nymeria had disappeared, as she was prone to do in combat, and Irving was back on his feet and shielding himself with magic as he too searched for their opponent. He tapped into his own abilities, the powers brought about by lyrium and years of templar training. He pushed the power outward in a circle around him, causing the darkness to clear for a few feet around him.

A bolt of lightning flew at Irving, Irving blocked it with his staff and the electricity dissipated along the length of the shaft.

"Any chance you could dispel this Maker-damned darkness?" Greagoir said to Irving, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I need to be able to see the source of the magic to take down the whole spell, otherwise it'll just clear patches for a moment or two before the magic starts flowing again and the darkness comes back." Irving hurled a lighning bolt a few feet to the right of where the previous attack had seemed to come from. The lack of a scream of pain was expected, though still mildly disappointing to Irving.

"Only one option then" Greagoir said. A swarm of gnats emerged from the darkness, an upper level spell of the Creation School. Irving countered it with a quick blast of flame, reducing the swarm to ashes.

"Yes" Irving said, staff up, searching for the next spell to counter.

"This is not going to be fun." Greagoir began advancing, Irving close behind him. The darkness around him parted as he moved forward, forced away by the aura that emanated from him, before reforming as he passed. They were now surrounded by darkness on all sides, spells continued to be thrown at them by whoever was hiding in the dark, all of them swiftly countered by Irving.

Irving sensed it before Greagoir, powerful magic filling the air, stronger than the darkness. Irving could feel the heat of it, the unnatural energy that could only be the precursor to the storm. Instantly he knew what was about to happen.

"Run, back to the stairs" he screamed at Greagoir before sprinting off into the darkness. As he ran, nothing but blackness all around him, he hoped that Greagoir was doing as he was told. Irving muttered an incantation under his breath, drawing his mana out and channeling it back into him, he felt the magical energy making him stronger and faster. He kept running, seeing nothing until… there! A small glowing red flame, unnatural and too powerful for even the darkness to hide, he charged it, sprinting with everything he had. A second later, the Inferno came into being, a pillar of flame too bright for even the darkness to hide, engulfing the area where he and Greagoir had been. He slammed into the mage that had summoned it, tackling the mage to the ground and losing his staff in the process.

"You will not have her!" It, which he now realized felt like a she, screamed. The form thrashed under him, the darkness lessened around them, but Irving was too focused on the mage to notice. A force came from the woman, hitting him like a flying brick wall, throwing him off of her. Greagoir came charging at the sound of the fighting, the remaining darkness still enough to conceal Irving and the mage. The mage managed to get up and slip around Greagoir, Irving saw the woman draw a short sword from a sheath at her hip. She moved toward the templar, to stab him in the back. Irving immediately moved to stop her.

"Hey bitch" Irving yelled as he drew close to the woman. She spun around, sending slashing cut across his stomach. The blade cut through his robe, he had lost the shielding slamming into her earlier, before catching on something metal and glancing off. Irving used the woman's surprise to his advantage, grabbing her and wrapping her in a front headlock, then he pulled up on her neck with every ounce of magically enchanced strength he had. He was rewarded with a satisfying crack, and the woman went limp and he dropped her.

The last of the darkness dissipated and he looked around. Greagoir was standing near him, sword and shield raised ready for a fresh attack. He saw Nymeria standing near a far wall, next to a series of Dwarven statues. Irving looked down at the woman, and saw a pair of spectacles on her face. Immediately, the connection was made.

"Dwarven Night Engines, of course."

"What are you talking about, Irving" Greagoir asked.

"Dwarven Night Engines, Dwarven war machines that put out a kind of magical black fog that you can only see through using enchanted spectacles. The argument for them being that if only your side of the battle can see, only your side can fight, how did you manage disarm them Nymeria?" Irving didn't even know how to work the damn things, and he had spent a month studying them when he was an apprentice.

"Very skillfully" Nymeria said, her tone making it clear that that was the only answer she was going to give. She moved over to them and flipped over the corpse of the woman.

"Congratulations Irving, I do believe that you have just killed Revka Amell. I never figured you as a neck breaker, I'm impressed." Nymeria looked down at the woman's corpse.

"She would have never allowed herself to be taken alive" Irving frowned at the corpse. Such a waste, he thought.

"Why do you think that?" Nymeria looked up at Irving.

"Would you?" Irving looked Nymeria in the eyes.

"Not in this world, not in the next." Nymeria said, Greagoir nodded in agreement, none of them would ever willingly allow themselves to be taken prisoner, by anyone, they all thought.

"I do believe that that is exactly what we came here for" Irving pointed to a large vault door heavily reinforced with glowing runes, steel bars, and heavy duty locks.

"This seems like something for Irving and I to handle." Nymeria looked long and hard at the door, knowing that the more obvious of the mechanisms were probably backed by traps, very lethal for the unwary.

"Agreed, think you can handle this 'Pretender' on your own, Greagoir?" Irving's tone was slightly mocking, but he was dead serious, one thing he had learned over the years was that one could never completely know the dangers confronting a mage could present. Maker knows enough people have made the mistake of underestimating me, he thought.

"Should be able to, besides, if he's that powerful then I guarantee you that at the very least the top of the tower will be destroyed, that should give you the signal that I'm in over my head and to come running." Greagoir was only half joking about the top of the tower being destroyed, it had happed more than one time before.

Irving and Nymeria moved toward the door to begin the work of disarming the traps and unlocking the security mechanisms. Greagoir headed for the entrance to the stairwell on opposite wall to where they had entered.

"This ought to be interesting" Greagoir said as he mounted the stairs

….

The Pretender stood staring out at the sea. The storm was in full swing, lightning flashed and thunder boomed. He wore simple red robes, one of a few dozen sets he owned for situations where he needed his clothing to be disposable. He didn't turn when he sensed his wards being breached, he didn't turn when he heard the sound of metal boots the stone steps come into the room, he didn't turn around when out of the corner of his eye he saw Knight-Commander Greagoir Howe standing at the top of the stairs with his shield up and his sword readied in a combat stance.

"You can put the arms away; I have neither the desire nor the intention to harm you." He still kept his eyes on the sea, leaving his back to the armored templar behind him.

"I will accept your surrender with honor, I can only guarantee you a fa-… a trial at the mercy of the Grand Clerics." Greagoir did not sheathe his blade or lower his shield as he advanced upon the mage. Though the man looked harmless, Greagoir had seen entire companies of men killed by mages that had looked 'harmless'.

"I admire your word choice there. You were careful too avoid saying 'a fair trial', which you and I both know would be a lie. It matters not however, as I have no intention of surrendering." He still had not turned around, which the old man knew was annoying the Templar.

"I don't understand, you've said that you have no intention of fighting" Greagoir said, keeping the confusion out of his voice.

"Yes, I have no intention of fighting you, but I am by no means surrendering. Believe me, if I wished to kill you, I would have done it already. Something I'm sure that you've heard many times Knight-Commander Howe, but I assure you that it isn't merely a grand boast this time." The Pretender finally turned to face Greagoir.

Greagoir had faced more mages, demons, spirits, warlords, and world leaders in his time than most knight commanders would ever meet in their lifetimes, yet even he was struck by the level of power and authority that the man seemed to project. The old man was damn near inhumanly tall, and the light robes betrayed that he had the physique of a hardened soldier, yet he had the bearing of a king.

"You know me? Then you know what I've done, and you know that you aren't just going to walk away." Greagoir took a step closer to emphasize his point. This man may have been impressive, but that didn't mean that Greagoir was going to give him even an inch of leverage.

"Greagoir Howe, Knight Commander of the Ferelden Circle of Magi, born to the now disgraced Arl Tarleton Howe and his wife, brother of Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine. Left your family at age twelve to join the Templar Order due to quarrels with your father, succeeded in training and officially entered the Order at age sixteen, two years earlier than standard." The old man began to pace in front of Greagoir, who was doing his best to keep his face neutral.

"You distinguished yourself over the next two years by volunteering for no less than seven suicide missions and succeeding in each. You took a break from the Order when Maric Theirin took command of the Fereldan rebellion because you felt like the rebellion was at a key crossroads between victory and defeat and needed as many good men as they could, you turned out to be right." The old man stopped pacing and looked at Greagoir again, there almost seemed to be appreciation in the old man's eyes.

"You were temporarily branded a heretic until you were absolved when Cleric Bronach reversed her stance and claimed Maric as rightful king. You earned a respectable number of medals for your service in the rebellion. You earned a new knighthood and the name, 'Shield of the Maker' at White River. You returned to the Order after the war and were promoted to your current rank a few months ago after the incident regarding First Enchanter Remille at King Maric's insistence. You've had an interesting and very impressive career my friend." The old man grinned at Greagoir. He's trying to unsettle me, Greagoir thought, mission accomplished on that front.

"You know my service record, which means that's you have agents who've infiltrated the Order" Greagoir decided that if the man was going to keep revealing secrets, he might as well keep the conversation going before moving in for the takedown.

"Or perhaps I simply had an agent slip into the archive room in the Seeker's fortress in Val Royeaux. It isn't that difficult for a skilled bard to infiltrate a building where most where helmets that completely obscure the face. Or perhaps I used magic." The grin on the old man's face turned devilish at the last remark. Greagoir scowled for two reasons, one was the fact that the man was right, and the other was the fact that he had run into yet another mage that believed himself to be incredibly witty.

"Do all mages consider themselves to be hilarious, or just the ones I meet?" Greagoir took another discreet step forward, trying to close the distance between him and the mage.

"You know, you could be a bit more polite. I'm about to give you a gift worth far more than all of the gold in Orlais." The old man said cryptically.

Ok, time to take this guy down, once they start talking about gifts worth more than already obscene amounts, it usually means that things are about to go incredibly south, Greagoir thought.

"Ah well, can't blame you for being uninformed. Also I do apologize for lying to you earlier. I am going to have to harm you a little bit." As soon as he finished his sentence, the Pretender cast a spell. A chunk of the floor was ripped out and sent flying at Greagoir, the templar blocked it with his shield but was still thrown onto his back. Greagoir immediately scrambled to his feet.

Greagoir was greeted by the sight of the Pretender changing into something. The old man grew larger, his skin growing scaly, his head elongating, and his teeth growing long and sharp. His hands and feet grew into claws with long talons. Long, leathery wings sprouted from his back. The mage kept growing, his form became too much for the room to contain. His wings expanded outward, smashing the walls. The room began collapsing.

"Fuck, I hate being right" Greagoir swore, he sprinted and leapt into the stairwell. A mere minute later the deafening sound of the roof collapsing came and the stairwell shook, but remained intact. Once the tremor stopped, Greagoir climbed the stairs once more. All he saw was the rubble from the collapsed room, and the silhouette of a large dragon flying off into the night.

"So, that powerful, eh" A voice came from below, Greagoir turned to see Irving standing in the stairwell, leaning on his staff.

"Turned into a dragon" Greagoir said, beginning to feel the adrenaline fading.

"That's a new one, he get away?" Irving arched his eyebrow inquisitively.

"Yep" Greagoir said, staring intently at the fading silhouette of the dragon.

"Think we'll see him again?"

"No, considering what he knew and how prepared they were, I have a feeling that we only saw him this time because he wanted us to." The dragon finally disappeared from sight entirely and Greagoir turned to Irving.

"Probably right" Irving said; his expression an odd panoply of graveness, amusement, and utter confusion.

"Something I should know about?" Greagoir asked, noticing Irving's expression.

"Probably"

An awkward silence followed for a few seconds.

"Are you going to tell me?"

Irving opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, then opened it again, then closed it again. He remained quiet for several minutes, thinking, while Greagoir waited impatiently. Finally, Irving seemed to come to a decision.

"I think it's best if you just see them for yourself." Irving turned and walked down the stairs.

"Them?" Greagoir followed Irving, unsure whether he should be curious, nervous, or drawing his sword.

….

"Kevesh" the Tevinter croaked as the life flowed out of him, around the young templar's sword that was sticking through his stomach and out of was back.

Swift pulled his sword from the Tevinter's body and kicked the body out of the way. He stepped over the body and bashed his shield into another one, slipping his blade between the Vint's ribs. Once again he pulled the blade out and kicked the corpse out of the way. It was a simple process, bash, stab, kick, and repeat. It was just like training.

The architecture had gotten more and more Dwarven as they moved down. According to their orders, this meant that Swift's group was on the right track. The Tevinters they had encountered seemed to be trying to retreat. Swift was fine with them retreating, a blade in the back worked just as well as a blade in the chest. The only good Vint is a dead Vint, Swift thought.

"Secure the slaves, sweep the rooms" Swift yelled, very aware that he was the lowest ranked templar in the group, yet he was the one in charge. His authority was unquestionable for the time being though, no one questioned Nymeria Valmont on the battle field.

"Swift, you're going to want to see this!" The yell came from Knight-Lieutenant Rodomonte Vixus, a Nevarran man only two years older than Swift, another of Nymeria's Strays. Vixus was the non-mage son of a senior Mortalitasi, a fact that should have guaranteed his career as a templar be spent in a backwater chantry in Ferelden or the Anderfels, and would have were it not for Nymeria's intervention. Vixus had impressed Nymeria during training in much the same way Swift had, guaranteeing him a position under her command.

"What is it?" Swift moved into the room where Vixus was. It appeared to be someone's quarters. The design of the room was Dwarven, for someone of a high station based on the level of opulence. It wasn't any of these things that had caused Vixus to call for Swift, and none of them held Swift's attention. That dubious honor was held by the dead woman slumped over a large stone desk. She was a dwarf, her armor was obviously that of a noble, and the hilt of a dagger protruded from her back. Spread around the desk in front of her was a collection of papers, a quill, an ink well, a wine goblet, and a bottle of wine.

"Listen to what this says." Vixus held up a small piece of paper, with spots of what appeared to be either red wine or blood on it. Vixus began reading.

"To any and all Templar forces invading the fortress of Black Moon, I request that the attached documents be hand delivered to Rana Aeducan, High Princess of Orzammar. Once this task is performed, you will be rewarded with whatever you may desire. These documents are to be delivered directly to her and she is to be the sole viewer of the attached documents. Any attempt to reveal these documents to anyone other than Rana Aeducan, or to read them yourself, will result in your assassination. It's signed, Paragon Katrin Aeducan, High Queen of Orzammar and all of the Dwarven Empire." Vixus looked up from the paper at Swift.

"Are we sure that this is real?" Swift couldn't keep his eyes off of the dead woman, who might be a world leader he now realized.

"The seal is definitely authentic, and it is the personal seal of Katrin Aeducan." Vixus held up a seal stamp that had been on a desk.

"This thing is worth more than a Pentaghast's tomb. The way that Dwarven noble families defend these things, you'd need an army of golems or the Black Fox himself to get a hold of one belonging to a member of the royal family, much less the queen's own personal seal. Trust me, this seal is real, and if the seal is real, then we are currently sharing this room with the corpse of the Queen of Orzammar." Vixus set the seal back on the desk.

"Are these the papers she mentions?" Swift picked up a sealed envelope bearing the same seal as the letter. From the feel of it, Swift reckoned that there were at least a dozen papers inside of the envelope.

"They were attached to the letter, so yes I would assume so." Vixus began searching the drawers of the desk.

"That assassination threat seems like it might be a little hard for her to follow through on." Swift said as he examined the envelope.

"The wild flailing of a dying woman, the living often struggle as their spirits slip away." Vixus said dismissively, it was something his father had often said before Vixus had left to join the templars. Swift nodded grimly, of everyone the young templar knew, Vixus was the highest authority on death. Swift was about to set the envelope down and move on, when something caught his eye. There was a slight sheen around the seal, it could have easily been a thin layer of excess wax from the seal. Swift took a magnifying glass off of the desk.

"Vix, I'm pretty sure that the assassination threat wasn't just flailing." Vixus looked up at Swift, who was staring intently at the seal through the magnifying glass.

"What is it?"

"Take a look, right around the edge of the seal" Swift handed Vixus the magnifying glass, "here use this."

"Shit, good eye Swift." Vixus looked at the miniscule runes that encircled the seal, made visible by the magnifying glass, their glow was almost entirely hidden by the wax.

"Ten sovereigns says that if anyone other than Rana Aeducan breaks that seal, they'll get a nasty surprise."

"Do I look like a recruit, Knight-Corporal?" Vixus asked sarcastically, emphasizing the Swift's rank.

"Is that insubordination I hear Knight-Lieutenant, the captain did leave me in command, after all." Swift returned the jibe, bringing a rare smirk out of the normally serious Vixus.

"Come on Dog Peasant, we'd best finish clearing the lower floors and get this intelligence to Captain Nymeria." Vixus stood and started for the door.

"Right behind you, Corpse Lover" Swift took one last look at the woman slumped over the desk, High Queen of the Dwarven Empire, he mused, what a way to go. Then he followed Vixus out to finish clearing the lower floors.

….

Greagoir took the steps two at a time following Irving back down to the chamber with the vault and the Night Engines.

"So what is it that you think.. I… should…. see" Greagoir stopped dead, his jaw dropping at what he saw.

"I told you that you needed to see it for yourself" Irving said, unable to keep himself from smirking at Greagoir's expression despite the situation.

"Would the two of you please relax? They were crying and obviously hungry, a situation that I am far more prepared to handle that then the two of you. Quite simple mon cheris."

Nymeria sat on a chair she had dragged from somewhere, nude from the waist up, the top half of her armor had been removed and was set in a neat pile near her. What drew the attention of both of the men in the room, for once, was neither her perfect bosom, nor her toned form. Their attention was drawn by the two toddlers suckling at her breasts.

"That, I mean they, were what, I mean who, was locked up in that vault?" Greagoir said incredulously. Greagoir liked to think that when it came to raiding mage strongholds, there weren't many things that could surprise him anymore. This definitely fell on the list of things that surprised him.

"Those two and the bassinets they were in. Their names were carved into the bassinets, the elven girl is Elsa Surana, and the human girl is McKenna Amell." Irving's voice was grim when he spoke McKenna's name. Greagoir looked at his friend, he saw the guilt flicker across Irving's face, and then just like that it was gone. Greagoir knew Irving well enough to know that now was not the time to discuss what was obviously bothering the mage.

"Irving…" Nymeria began, trying to console her friend.

"So Nymeria, I'm no expert, but I'm fairly certain that to be able to nurse, a woman has to have given birth at least once before. Something you wish to tell us my dear?" Irving smirked, hiding his momentary vulnerability behind a shield of snark.

"Perhaps another time cheri, but all one needs is to keep in practice. I volunteer in the Chantry nursery. Though I never expected to have this particular skill come into use while raiding an apostate stronghold." Nymeria's returned Irving's smirk with one of her own, her mask slipping into place.

"Knight-Commander Greagoir, we managed… to…" Knight-Corporal Swift entered the room and found himself speechless, the sight of his Knight Captain topless and nursing two infants stealing every possible word from his mouth.

"Ahh, Knight-Corporal Swift, savor this moment, this is the one time that you will be able to enjoy our dear Knight-Captain Valmont's bosom in it's full glory without having your skull penetrated by Greagoir's sword." Irving was barely holding back a full blown cackle at the corporal's sudden discomfort.

"He's wrong Swift, I catch you savoring anything and you lose your head" Greagoir growled. Greagoir liked Swift, he was a good man and a credit to the Order. He would be damned, however, if he let anyone ogle the love of his life's tits.

"Will you boys play nice for once? Irving, Greagoir, take the girls while I slip back into something a bit more appropriate for the occasion. Swift, fill us in on what happened in our absence." Nymeria stood, passing McKenna to Irving and Elsa to Greagoir, pushing the infants into the arms of the surprised men. Then she turned to Swift, giving him a clear and unimpaired view of her toplessness.

"Swift, dear, close your mouth, you'll catch a fly in there." Then Nymeria spun on her heel and began to dress.

"Of course ma'am" Swift said, his face the color of fresh raspberries. Composing himself, Swift began to report his findings. He told them about the Tevinters killed, the slaves they had rescued, the various Dwarven Nobles that they had found dead in the lower levels, the sealed Deep Roads entrance, and he showed them the letter and the packet of documents left by the Dwarven queen.

"As far as we can tell, most of the inhabitants escaped, but most of the tower is secure, except of course for the bestiary, where the two high dragons remain a threat." Swift concluded his report.

"Alright, Nymeria go down to the lower levels, you know Dwarven nobility and Tevinter Magisters, confirm that the corpse down there is the Dwarven queen and see if there are any other corpses down there that we might recognize." Without looking at him, Nymeria nodded, acknowledging Greagoir's orders.

"Swift take these kids, get them somewhere safe. Whatever they were being used for, it was enough to get Tevinters magisters, Dalish elves, and possibly Orzammar's Royal Family to work together. I don't like the sound of that and neither should you." Swift stood at attention as McKenna and Elsa were handed over to him.

"Come on Irving." Greagoir said as he headed for the stairs.

"Dragons to slay?" Irving asked, falling in step behind Greagoir.

"Dragons to slay" Greagoir responded.

"Well, this should be fun." Greagoir could feel the smirk behind Irvin's words without even looking.

Greagoir sighed.

"Let's just get this damn thing over with."

….

Five hours later, Greagoir sat alone on the black stone beach, having changed from his armor into his dress tunic and breeches, his sword lay next to him. Once the enchanted rubble had been cleared away, the main bulk of the Templar forces had flooded in. Not that they honestly had much to do, by the time that the rubble had been cleared, Greagoir's forces had eliminated the last pockets of resistance and had the tower secured. Greagoir was called the 'hero' of the battle, mainly because he had been in command and his disdain for politics meant that he wasn't going to actually use that credit for any political action that might prove to be a threat to the power bases of the Knights Divine and the Knight Vigilant.

Well I won't, he thought, they keep forgetting about Nymeria.

"So there's the guest of honor." Irving sat down next to him.

"Not one for banquets, you know that Irving" Greagoir said without shifting his gaze from the stormy sea.

"Well, you're not missing much. Nymeria's playing politics, making sure you, me, and her are all completely untouchable. The top rankers are all making big speeches, but I did snag something to make it worth while." Irving held up two glass tumblers and a bottle of expensive Ferelden whisky. Irving filled each of the tumblers with the whisky.

"Ah, Irving, it's times like these that I remember why we keep you around." Greagoir smiled as he took one of the tumblers, held it up in front of his face, and gently swirled it. The whisky was the color of liquid gold. He held it up to his nose and sniffed it, a fine blend of honey, clover, lilac, and grapes. All the hallmarks of a good whisky, Greagoir had left behind most of the affectations of his old life as a noble, but he still had a taste for good whisky.

"Well, that and when I save your life." Irving said as he went through the same procedure as Greagoir. Despite being born as a lowborn freeholder, over the years Irving had picked up Greagoir's taste for fine whisky.

"That too, thanks for saving my ass in that fight with Amell. I owe you one"

"I thought we stopped keeping count after the end of the war with Orlais. But you're welcome, woman put up a hell of a fight, would have gutted me if I hadn't been wearing mail under my robes." Irving's free hand unconsciously went to his stomach, where the blade had passed over his chainmail.

"You wear armor under your robes?" Greagoir turned to Irving curiously.

"Only in battle, most mages prefer to trust their magic to shield them, I trust my shields, but a bit of caution never hurts."

"Thought you had given up wearing armor when you started wearing skirts" Greagoir took a small sip of his drink, damn this is good whisky, he thought.

"Well it's certainly not stopped you, has it?" Irving countered, laughing, and Greagoir laughed too. Then they just sat in a comfortable silence for a while, sipping whisky and watching waves crash against the rocks.

Finally Greagoir broke the silence.

"You know, I still can't understand it. How could that woman be so dedicated, to fighting the Circle, to defeating the Chantry, to killing me simply because she's a mage and I'm a templar? While at the same time, you and I have fought side by side for years, you've saved my life more times than I could count, and you're the closest thing to a brother that I have left. I just can't comprehend that contradiction."

Irving was silent for a moment, then he laughed, a long and hearty laugh that lasted a good minute, much to the annoyance of Greagoir. Finally he stopped and looked back at Greagoir.

"I'm sorry Greagoir, I'm sorry, but sometimes I can't help myself. You're a good man Greagoir, not to mention the best templar the Order has ever had the luck to turn out. But damn, even you can't seem to realize that we're not just mages, we're people too, we don't all have the same agenda."

"Put it into some context, she was a woman born to wealth and power; she would have lost all of that if she had been placed in a Circle. From what I've read of her, she lost two of her husbands, her family's titles, and eight of her children to the chantry, well, nine now I suppose." Irving's face darkened for a second, before he once again buried that feeling.

"That woman had her life destroyed by the Order and the Chantry. Now look at me, I was born to a drunk of a father and a mother who spent most of her time trying to keep him from beating my younger sister and I to death. I was, at best, destined to live a life of back-breaking mediocrity. Now, because of my position in the Circle, I live like a noble, I'm one of the most powerful men in Ferelden, and teyrns, arls, and even the king request my counsel on a regular basis. If not for the Circle, I would still be nothing but a pig farmer barely getting by, I wouldn't have become First Enchanter, and I probably wouldn't have met you or Nymeria, the two best friends that I could have ever asked for. She had every reason to hate the Circle, for me, it's the cornerstone that I've built my life on." Irving finally finished, taking a long breath.

Silence settled over them once more, until Greagoir raised his glass and began an toast from they used to say during the Ferelden Rebellion.

"To odd friendships and the Maker's sense of humor"

"To the past and the future, whatever they may hold" Irving continued the old toast, clinking his glass against Greagoir's.

"To Ferelden"


	2. Daughter of the Stone

**9;10 Dragon**

In the lyrium-lit hallways of the royal palace of Orzammar, servants scurried to and fro. Each rushing to carry out one errand or another on the orders of their superiors as if their lives depended on it, and for some of them, it did. Despite their urgency, every servant immediately dropped into a deep bow as a little girl and her retinue passed.

"Your highness, please, return to your rooms and allow me to take the king's message for you. You must return to your studies" The young Shaper pleaded with the girl as he followed her.

"My father's messenger said that my father had something that he needed to tell me, and my brother was brought to him, I should be too." Rana Aeducan, Princess of Orzammar, may have been five years old, but she spoke like she was a decade older. Her mother always liked to say that childhood was always the first victim of Dwarven politics.

"But your highness, your esteemed older brother, Prince Trian has said-" the scholar's mouth closed the second Rana raised her hand.

"Sod my brother and sod what he says, the fool's so sure he's going to be king that he thinks he already is." The doors to the throne room loomed before them. Already large, they appeared giant to the five year old dwarf.

"Open the doors please."

"Yes, your highness." Two burly guards snapped to attention and moved to drag the metal and stone doors open.

"Your highness, I beg you to reconsider." The scholar continued to plead, Rana ignored him, keeping her eyes forward.

"If you say one word while we're in the throne room, I will have you killed."

The scholar immediately shut his mouth.

The doors opened to show the throne of the High King of the Dwarven Empire. A seat where wars had been declared, a seat where executions had been ordered, a seat where the fate of every living soul in Orzammar was decided.

A seat that was empty.

"Rana Aeducan, you are supposed to be studying in your rooms. You need to start taking your role as second daughter more seriously." Rana wanted to stab her elder brother.

"I am dear brother, our father sent for both of us. And besides, even if he hadn't, it is my duty to attend important meetings as one of father's heirs." She couldn't cut him with blades, so she would have to make do with cutting him with words.

"Your highnesses" the source of the voice was an armored man wearing the livery of house Aeducan who stood in a deep bow in the door way behind Rana.

"How dare you address me before I grant you permission to speak!" More yelling, of course because yelling solves everything right Trian? Rana rolled her eyes, another of her mother's sayings echoed in her head. Fear could be demanded quite easily, respect had to be earned, either by honest deeds or skillful deception. Trian had never really learned much from their mother.

"Apologies your highness, your father wishes to speak to both you and your sister separately." Rana used Trian's moment of distraction to slip a small bag of powder out of her sleeve, the contents of which she dumped in the drink that Trian had set on one of the tables in the room.

"Of course he does, he probably has some important political matters to discuss. And I'm certain he wants to discuss your behavior, you must learn to be a bit more demure, a bit more obedient, a bit more like a proper young lady. Escort me to my King Father servant." Trian took a long drink from the cup on the table to punctuate his statement.

"Actually, your highness, His Majesty would prefer to speak to Princess Rana first." The messenger seemed to be choosing his words extremely carefully, less out of fear and more out of anger. Very few people in the world could speak to a member of the Orzammar Royal Guard in such an insulting manner without being struck down, Trian was unfortunately one of them.

"As I said, he must wish to chastise you on your abhorrent behavior. Little girls should be quiet and obedient, they don't need opinions. That's what their fathers and older brothers are for." Trian enjoyed talking down to her, he must, she thought, her mother's voice in the back of her head once again. Small men needed big egos, they stood on top of them like towers on pillars of sand, impressive, but easily brought low.

Rana followed the guard without a word, leaving her retinue in the throne room. He escorted her quickly to her father's bedroom.

"Thank you sir" Rana smiled at the guard when they reached their destination. The guard smiled back as he opened the door and closed it behind her. The second the door closed, her father hugged her tighter than he had ever hugged her in her life. That was what told her that something was terribly wrong.

"Daddy… are you ok?" Rana returned the hug, but she couldn't ignore the tears that she could feel moistening his beard.

"I'm fine Nugget, I'm fine, but… but your mother, she's… she's…" Endrin found the words catching in his throat. To all of Dwarven nobility, this was the King of Orzammar telling the Princess a piece of critical information. For the two of them, this was a father telling his daughter that her mother was never coming home. He had no idea how to say it, all of his years of statecraft and he couldn't find the words.

"She's dead, isn't she?" That was the only reason that she could think of for her father to be acting like this. Her mother was dead, the thought resonated in her mind. She felt something deep inside of her chest, rising up her throat like bile. It threatened to spill from her lips in a deep wracking sob. Finally she forced it back down, crushing the feeling back into a tight little ball and shoving it down as far inside of herself as possible.

"Yes… Yes she is. Your uncle Pyral did all he could, but the Chantry Templars overwhelmed them." Endrin gripped his daughter like a drowning man would a lifeline.

"…And uncle Pyral?"

"I'm alright my dear." The voice came from behind her father. Rana released her grip on her father and he reluctantly did the same. She turned and saw her uncle, Pyral Harrowmont, standing at her father's desk.

"I'm so sorry Rana, I did everything that I could, but Katrin and I were separated while covering the retreat. Your mother went to aid Thorin Helmi and his two bodyguards and ordered me to hold the Deep Roads entrance. The last I saw of her was when she threw the lever down and broke it off, sealing the doors to keep the Templars from following the rest of our forces." Shame burned in Harrowmont's eyes.

"I'm truly, truly, sorry my dear, I did everything I could to prevent it, but I'm afraid your mother's death was a necessary one."

"I understand Uncle Pyral" Rana hugged her uncle, startling him for a moment before he returned the embrace.

"Is there anything else daddy?" Rana turned back to her father, forcing her face to stay devoid of emotion.

"No Nugget, that's all."

"I'm going to have my tutor killed tonight, if that's alright with you, he refuses to teach me anything to do with military matters or politics. All he keeps trying to do is teach me dumb things like dancing and dinner etiquette. I can't serve our family without knowing how to command and how to govern." She knew that etiquette and dancing were important for a young noble to learn, but she wanted to do more than just be married off to some favorable noble.

"That's fine dear, I was going to have it done tomorrow, he's a plant by house Dace. Our spies in house Dace say that his orders are to get you into a marriage agreement." Endrin's heart was caught between swelling with pride and shattering with grief. He felt such pride at how dutiful his daughter was, five years old, her mother had just died, and all she was worried about was serving their family. On the other hand, it made him wonder just how badly he had failed as a father when his five year old daughter had just lost her mother, and all that she was concerned about was the fact that she might not be able to serve her family as well as she could.

"That's why he won't teach me, if I don't know how to be a leader, my only use is to be married off. If that's all daddy, may I go?"

"Yes, Nugget, you can go. We're all going to have dinner together tonight. Does that sound good for you?"

"Yes daddy, I'd love that." With that Rana bowed to her father, turned, and exited the room.

"My daughter bows to me Pyral, my five year old little girl bows to me." Endrin shook his head.

"Yes, she's very dutiful, and she's learned what's expected of the Princess of Orzammar very quickly. You should be proud."

"I just told her that her mother is dead Harrowmont. She should be bawling in my arms, she should be cursing the Ancestors for being so cruel, Stone knows I did." Another cup's worth of Valenta's Red came out of the cask and down Endrin's throat. Stone knows he'd need it if he wanted to get through talking to Trian without snapping. He loved all of his children, but Trian was the hardest of them to deal with. Mainly because Trian was so sure that being the eldest made him the heir, and he wanted the crown, badly.

"You're upset that your daughter took the news well…?" Harrowmont looked at him quizzically.

"I'm upset that I've raised my daughter to think that she needs to hide her emotions from me. I'm upset that at five years old my daughter isn't just thinking about assassination, she sodding plans them. I'm upset that she's been taught to believe that her role as princess is more important than her happiness. I'm upset that not only is it possible that my eldest son is plotting my assassination, it's a guarantee. I'm upset that he thinks that the proper response to seeing a casteless coming out of the Shapereate is to get his friends and toss him over the edge into the lava for being a casteless in the Diamond Quarter." Endrin drank another cup of ale and moved to get more.

"The casteless was a thief, there were witnesses" Harrowmont protested.

"Nugshit!" Endrin pounded a fist on his desk.

"You and I know that those witnesses were lying. Damn it, he put the bribes on his expense account, by the stone Pyral, he even labeled it as 'entertainment' in the ledger. He's my son, and I love him, but we can't ignore the fact that he's a sodding sadist, and if there's anyone to blame for that, it's me." Another cup of the Red, I might as well just crack the cask open with my axe, Endrin thought.

"He didn't break any laws. He'll be a good king, he's just… how do the surfacers say it, sowing his wild oats." Pyral got himself a cup from the keg, these conversations always go more smoothly when Valenta greases the wheels, he thought.

"Pyral, sowing wild oats is what I was doing when we were nineteen and you found me tied to my bed with an elven hooker whipping me with a riding crop. Randomly killing people just because there isn't any law against it isn't sowing wild oats, it's sodding murder."

"Casteless don't belong in the Diamond Quarter, what your son did was hot blooded and reckless, but not murder. Killing a casteless is no different than what happened with the elven whore, not something to be done in public, but there's nothing inherently wrong about it. What he did is no worse than any of our drunken forays into Dust Town when we were young."

"And that's the problem, he's exactly the same as me when I was his age, I can see all of the same mistakes he'll make, because I've already made them, and unlike me he won't have anyone like you to rein him from going to far, and he won't have anyone like Katrin to smack him when he's being an idiot." Endrin was starting to feel the ale, he knew that he'd need to stop soon, he couldn't be drunk when he told Trian.

"I disagreed with Katrin on almost everything, but she was right on a few points. Casteless are the lowest of the low, there's no question on that, but Katrin was right, they're people. And I've raised one of my children to believe that it's perfectly acceptable to kill them. We were menaces when we were young Pyral, you dragged me out of enough whorehouses and back alleys when we were young to know that. But if he wants to be king, he's going to have to change, we can at least agree on that, can't we? Even the hardest of our party doesn't want a sadist for a king." The King of Orzammar set down his cup and turned to Harrowmont

"Agreed" Harrowmont conceded.

"And for the record, the City Guard is to protect any and all who wish to make use of the Shaperate, including the casteless. The law allowing access to the Shaperate to everyone, regardless of caste was the last law that Katrin put through before her death and it will be honored. If anyone in the party has a problem with it, tell them that I'll gladly settle it personally in the proving arena." Harrowmont looked as if he was about to argue, but Endrin fixed him with a look that made it clear that he was speaking as the King of Orzammar, not as Harrowmont's old friend.

"Alright, you should probably send for your eldest now Endrin." Harrowmont moved for the door to get the guard.

"You're right, send him in." One last cup of the Red to steel his nerves and contain his temper.

"Father, what matters need my attention?" Trian's voice came from behind him, Endrin didn't turn around.

"Only one son, I have horrible news." Endrin turned to see Trian standing at attention next to Harrowmont.

"Has house Helmi defected in regards to Assembly Legislation 3486?" Dear Ancestors, I understand that he wants to impress me, but could he please try doing it in other things than politics.

"No son, nothing like that. I'm sorry to tell you that your mother is dead." Endrin tried to gauge his son's reaction, it seemed to be somewhere between mildly surprised to slightly annoyed. Finally Trian spoke.

"Ah, well that's mildly inconvenient. House Flamesilver is sure to stop supporting us, it's a hit, but nothing too serious. It's certainly not unexpected, and not entirely disadvantageous. All due respect to her father, but you and I both know that she had such cumbersome eccentricities. She was far too opinionated for a woman to be sure, all that nonsense about caste equality and trade with the surfacers. Have you chosen a suitable replacement yet, perhaps one of house Dace's women." Trian looked away ponderously.

Harrowmont poised himself to leap between Endrin and Trian, ready to prevent the King of Orzammar from murdering the prince where he stood. Amazingly, Endrin simply stood there, every muscle in his body tensed. He fixed himself another cup of the Red and took a long drink of it.

"There will never be another woman to replace your mother Trian. You may take your leave." Endrin turned away from his son.

"But father, politically speak-" Endrin cut him off.

"I said that you may take your leave." Endrin's voice was tight, barely controlled.

"Of course father, I will see you at dinner." Trian turned and left. Harrowmont escorted him out and closed the door behind him, before turning to face Endrin.

"Are you alright Endrin?"

"GEEEEYAAAAH" Endrin screamed as he hurled his cup against the wall. The cup shattered and the ale left a blood red stain on the wall.

...

"You were far too obvious, if you had been more subtle, you wouldn't be in this position."

Rana watched as the young Shaper clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging as he struggled for air, but none came. His throat had swollen closed due to the Bard's Delight that she had slipped into his drink.

His suffering continued for another few minutes before he finally slumped in his chair. Rana shook her head, amateurs, she thought.

"Can you please dispose of him?" her attendants quickly scooped the body up and carried it away to be wrapped in a rug and tossed in a lava flow.

Rana turned and left her room, followed by her retinue, minus those disposing of her former tutor. She made her way through the bowels of the palace, past three security posts, two stone dragon guardians, and a long hallway full of traps. The vaults were the only part of the palace with more security than the king's bedroom, they contained the treasury, the forbidden armory, the dark archives, and of course, the royal nursery.

The few who knew of it were always surprised to learn that the youngest of the royal family spent their earliest years in the same part of the palace as the greatest weapons still retained by the Dwarven Empire and the secrets of the Empire so terrible in power that they could only be recorded into the Memories kept in the deepest, most secure, rooms in Orzammar. In actuality it made perfect sense, the royal children were the most likely future rulers of Orzammar, this gave them made them a target for enemies of Orzammar and enemies of the royal family, and at their most vulnerable, they needed the protection.

"Remain out here" Rana instructed her retinue before entering the nursery. To her surprise, she found her elder brother staring over the cradle. He hadn't heard her enter, she felt no need for the moment to announce herself. For the moment, she simply slipped into the shadows between the glow stones and listened.

"Stupid sister, she's turned him against me." Of course he blames me, she thought, because he can do no wrong.

"Treachorous little bitch, she doesn't understand her duty to support me as the future king. I'm the eldest son, the crown is mine by right. I'm the one who understands the duties and stations established by birth." Oh by the sodding stone, could he be more of a cry baby. Rana thought of the little surprise that she'd slipped into his drink. She started the calculations in her head.

"And what of you? What will you be like? Will you be a loyal brother? Will you know your place and do what's right?" Just another minute or two, Rana thought with a smile.

"No, you're more likely to end up like that little wretch. You'll betray me, you'll try and usurp my station, you'll try and break the traditions set forth by millennia, you'll be just like her. And eventually, you'll probably try and kill me. Best to just end it now and blame it on one of the progressive houses." Trian drew a blade from his belt.

"Killing an infant Trian, I didn't think you could be any more of a disgrace to the name Aeducan." Rana stepped out of the shadows as Trian whirled around, blade in hand.

"You little bitch, I told your tutor that you were to be confined to your rooms for the evening!" The shock in Trian's eyes turned to rage as he looked upon his younger sister.

"Yes, he's dead, I did a better job with him than you were about to do to our baby brother." Something took form in Rana's amber eyes, something that didn't belong in a five year old's eyes, murder.

"You little whore, you have our mother's stubborn persistence, I'll make sure you're married off to someone who can break you of that annoying quality." Trian sneered at her.

"The problem with you Trian is that you think that you're perfect because you're the eldest." Rana started toward her elder brother, a dark grin spreading across her face.

"Birth dictates the will of the Ancestors, as firstborn son, it is the will of the Ancestors that I am to be king, and as secondborn daughter, it is the will of the Ancestors that you be whored out to someone politically favorable. Learn your place you pathetic bitch and stop fighting the Ancestors." Trian's smirked, but Rana could see the hint of fear in his eyes as she drew closer, the slight wobble in his knees.

Good, the little voice in the back of her head said.

"You're what the smiths would call a failed first attempt, the version that all of the mistakes were made on, the version to be learned from and discarded. That's why you hate little Bhelen and I so much, we're the finished copies, and you know that you just can't compete with us." That was what did it, that was where she crossed the line.

Trian lunged at her with the knife, a sloppy move made even sloppier by the sedative that she had slipped into his drink earlier. She sidestepped the thrust and dropped low, kicking her foot out and tripping her brother, sending him crashing to the ground. The blade flew out of his hand as he fell, clattering to the ground near him where it was quickly retrieved by Rana.

"So what now, you kill me?" Trian tried to get back to his feet, but found his muscles weren't responding to his brain's commands anymore.

Rana held the knife up in the torchlight, eyeing the blade and enjoying the way the light bounced off it.

"No, you're pathetic, but you're still my older brother. Family is important, that's what mother used to say. Don't worry the sedative I slipped into your drink earlier takes about a half an hour to take effect, but once it kicks in, it works very quickly, you'll be asleep and drooling all over yourself in no time" Rana giggled at the image, the genuinely childish sound stood in stark contrast to the devilish grin on her face and the cold wrath in her eyes. Wrath that Trian could see when she locked eyes with him a second later.

"But should you ever so much as lay a hand on Bhelen, I'll ensure you die a slow painful death and that your body is tossed in the Deep Roads for the darkspawn." Despite himself, Trian felt a chill of icy fear run down his spine. The confidence in her voice made it clear that this was by no means a mere threat, it was a promise. Finally the sedative took full effect and dragged Trian into unconsciousness.

Rana tucked the blade into one of her hidden pockets and went to the door of the nursery. She opened it and stepped out into the hallway where her entourage awaited.

"Guards" she called.

"Yes milady, how may we serve you?" the five armored men snapped to attention in front of her.

"My brother seems to have had a faint. Could a few of you please take him to his rooms?"

"Of course milady, at once!" Two of the guards bowed and rushed into the nursery to collect the Crown Prince.

"And could one of you tell my father that Trian won't be joining us for dinner tonight because he is feeling ill." The second she finished speaking another guard bowed and rushed off to fulfill her request.

"Will there be anything else milady?" The last guard asked as Trian's sleeping form was carried past Rana and the assembled servants.

"No, please remain out here. I'd like a moment alone with my baby brother." The guard nodded and bowed as Rana went back into the nursery and closed the door behind her. She crossed the room to the cradle where her baby brother lay.

Rana stood on a stool and looked down into her baby brother's wide eyes, they both shared their mother's dark amber eyes. He smiled up at her and murmured.

"Shhh" she cooed, "I can't replace mama Bhe-Bhe, but I swear by the Stone and the Ancestors, and our mother's memory that I'll always be there for you." Rana kissed her younger brother on the forehead.

"And if anyone tries to hurt you again, I'll make them beg for death."

 **OK guys, I realized that I forgot to put a notes section on the first chapter, so I'll make up for that here. This is my first Dragon Age fanfic, I've also published a few other stories, the most viewed being my first, a fallout fic called 'I Think I Like Like You Too' that I'm currently in the process of rewriting.**

 **This story has been my pet project since I first put my fallout fic on hiatus a year ago. The first chapter was something that I did over the course of seven months, putting in five minutes here, ten minutes there, that's why it's so long.**

 **In case you guys didn't get it from the first chapter, this will have all of the origins in it, and it will be slightly AUish. This story is mostly a tool for me to help stave off writers block by bouncing between projects, so I'm going to be pretty sporadic with my updates. I have a general idea for the highlights of the story, but most chapters are going to be whatever takes my fancy at the moment. The main characters have all been laid out, but feel free to contribute OCs for side characters, I can't promise that any OCs you guys give me will appear in every chapter, but I can promise that any OC I'm given will be worked into the story in some way, shape, or form.**

 **I try and keep my stories fairly flexible, so if there's anything you guys want to see in particular, let me know and I'll see what I can do.**

 **I welcome any and all reviews except trolls, so if you've got an opinion, I want to hear it. Also, just to be clear, most of my notes won't be nearly this long, this is just because I'm playing catch up for the opening.**

 **Read and Review my dear Lords and Ladies.**


	3. Daughter of the Crow

Is that a bandit?

That had been his first thought when he'd seen her.

She'd been walking along the road as he came along in his cart, hood up, cloak pulled tightly around her, cloth covered bundle hugged tightly to her chest. Once he drew closer he could see the bundle move slightly, and realized that it had to be an infant.

"Can I offer you a ride miss?" he'd said, yanking the reins to stop the horses. He had no clue who she was, but Maker damn him if he was just going to leave a mother and child on the side of the road.

"Where are you going?" she had asked him, suspicion clear in her voice, "And what will it cost?"

"Denerim eventually, but I plan on making a few stops along the way to sell off my wares. As for the price, nothing, just some company on the road."

Her eyes narrowed, that was when he realized what that must have sounded like.

"Not in that way of course," he'd rushed to say.

She had gone quiet for a moment, seemingly mulling it over, before finally nodding.

She had climbed up to sit next to him and he'd snapped the reins to get the horses going again.

The ride had passed in relative silence, with only the occasional noise coming from the child. She'd rebuffed his attempts at starting a conversation, answering in only one or two words, making it fairly clear she wasn't in the mood to talk.

They'd continued along the road for the rest of the day and part way into the night, before finally realizing that they weren't going to make it to the next town that night.

And that was what brought the two of them to where they sat now. Sitting around the fire at a camp site by the side of the road.

"So, you never told me your name?" he put the lid on the stew to let it cook for a while.

"Adaia of Dairsmuid" she pulled back her hood to reveal a mane of black hair and a pair of elven ears.

"Cyrion Tabris, a pleasure, and who is your lovely child?" Alright now we're getting somewhere he thought.

"Amity"

"A beautiful name, where are you going?" The question elicited another narrow eyed glare from her.

"Why do you need to know?"

"You are a woman of many secrets" He put forward his most suave smile, the same smile he used to charm highborn ladies into overspending on Dalish trinkets.

"You are a man of many questions."

"I suppose that makes us relatively even."

With that, he returned his attention to the stew.

He would figure her out, he had another few days on the road to manage it.

….

After a week of travelling together, they arrived at Oakespeare, a large village in the Hinterlands.

"We're in luck, it's market day." He said as they passed under the village gates and saw the banners decorating the square.

"You're in luck is what you mean, what do you sell anyway?"

After a week, Cyrion had managed to coax a few more details about his mysterious traveling companions.

She was apparently an herbalist and a surgeon, Amity was her child, the girl's father was dead. And she was going to Denerim. She still refused to go into any specifics about her past.

"Dalish trinkets, Ironbark tools, that sort of thing. I also do some woodworking for hire. I'm one of the few merchants who the Dalish will deal with, so I have a bit of a monopoly on the trade."

They arrived in the main square and he began setting up his stall. In many other cities, he wouldn't take such a prominent position, but he'd greased the proper palms the last time he passed through and that made him a very good friend of the local guard and the local merchants' guild.

"Healer, we need a healer over here!" The scream came from a man sprinting through the streets.

"Hold Amity!" Adaia shoved the baby girl into his arms, shocking him. It had taken him four days just to convince her to let him hold the girl while she cooked, now she was entrusting her to him while she ran off.

He smiled, it was progress, slow and annoying progress, but progress nonetheless.

The day drug on and the two managed to make a hefty profit. A wealthy merchant had been waylaid by bandits, thus his men had been willing to pay five sovereigns for Adaia's services, it had been an incredible stroke of luck, well, at least for them, the merchant and his men weren't quite as happy as he was. He'd also managed to make fifty silver off of his trinkets. It was more than enough for a good meal and a comfortable room at the local inn for the evening.

Being a gentlemen, he'd naturally allowed the bed to be taken by Adaia and Amity while he found a comfortable position in a nearby armchair.

He was enjoying the thoughts of what could be done with their newfound wealth as he drifted off into blissful sleep….

That was interrupted when he felt the blade at this throat.

"Knife-ears think that they can con us, that just cause we were in a spot of trouble that you could overcharge us. Well, how about we take back our gold and get some pain and suffering recompense out of the wench."

The man speaking, and holding the blade to Cyrion's throat, had his face hidden by a mask consisting of black ribbon wrapped around his face.

Why the man bothered to wear a mask, yet announce his identity was beyond Cyrion, but he knew he had to start talking his way out of this, he'd done it before, he'd do it again.

"Now we can come to an agreement or…." He shut up when the blade dug a little deeper into his neck.

"Quiet you! Do you have her Tom?"

There was no response.

"Tom, I said do you have the wench."

Still no response.

Suddenly the black masked man threw his head back, or at least that was what it seemed like up until he saw the blood coming through the man's cloak.

The man fell to his knees, and standing behind him, yanking back with a garrote, was Adaia, wearing a night robe and a pair of gloves, holding a pair of twin blades.

Finally the man stopped moving and Adaia gave the garrote one last yank before dropping him to the ground.

Cyrion gaped at her, then looked at the corpse, then at what remained of the man who must have been Tom.

She noticed his look

"A potent sleeping draft in powder form, followed by a stiletto dagger to the back of the head. Let me see where he cut you." The wire and blades retracted into some little devices on the bottoms of the gloves. She took hold of his chin, and moved in close to examine the wound.

"How… How did you do that?"

"I just told you." She stepped away from him and wetted a rag to wash the wound. He stood and bent down to yank the mask off of his former attacker. It was the merchant who'd been waylaid.

She pushed him back into the armchair and went to work on his wound.

"You know what I mean… How do you know how to do that?"

She smiled cryptically at him and leaned in close to whisper in his ear.

"Let's just say, skills that can be used to heal, can be used just as well to kill."

 **Ok guys, I'll be honest. I don't like the way this turned out, it feels clunky, it felt like I was forcing it out the entire time.**

 **What do you guys think, I know what I don't like, what about you?**

 **R &R guys.**


	4. Daughter of the Dragons

Teyrn Bryce Cousland was many things. The scion of one of the greatest noble houses in Ferelden, currently fourth in line for the throne of Ferelden, a skilled warrior and general, a charismatic statesman, a man of great conviction with nerves of steel…

And right now, more than anything else, he was an incredibly desperate man.

Staring down at the too-small frame of his infant daughter, he would trade everything if she would just cry, giggle, open her tiny eyes, just… something, Maker damn it, anything at all!

Ariel had been born a month before the healers had predicted, when she was born, her eyes had been closed and her heartbeat had been weak, and her eyes hadn't opened since. The surgeons and the mages had told him that there was nothing they could do, the most optimistic among them predicted that Ariel would die within a week or two. Possibly more, they'd said, most likely less.

They'd been sympathetic, of course, but their sympathies took the cold medical tone reserved for healers. He'd recognized the look in their eyes. He'd seen it before, during the rebellion, in the eyes of medics caring for dying men. He'd hated the look then, and he hated it even more now.

Maker, he wished he was back on the battlefield right now. Even the massacre at White River had been better than this, at least then he'd been able to do something, to fight back. Now, all he could do was sit there and watch his only daughter die in front of him.

"Your Lordship, the woman has arrived. She is waiting in the chapel" The guard stood at attention behind him.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, that's what Greagoir Howe had said to him at the battle of White River. When you're out of options and a demon is the only one offering you what you need, sometimes you have to dance with the demon.

"Alright, I'll meet her there, is Aldous with her?" He was referring to the tutor he'd hired from the Circle of Magi after his first son was born.

"Yes sir, he is. Though, if I may sir, this woman has all of the house guard on edge, myself included sir." They weren't the only ones, Teyrn Cousland thought.

"Your concerns are noted sergeant." He took one last look at his only daughter, laying there, dying in her cradle. He steeled himself with that image, he would need it if he was to do what needed to be done.

"But we must all bear our burdens." He was out of options, and she was the only one offering him what he needed.

He turned to leave the nursery, it was time to dance with the demon.

….

She was an unremarkable woman; that was what struck him more than anything.

He had expected more, he had expected flowing robes, glowing eyes, a staff crackling with eldritch energy. Perhaps some tall intimidating figure or a beautiful, seductive, mistress of temptation.

He certainly hadn't expected this short, plain, woman wearing a road-worn travelling cloak. If it weren't for the uncomfortable stares she was receiving from the guards and the worried-looking Aldous urgently whispering to her, he would have assumed her to be one of the servants.

No, you certainly couldn't tell from her looks that she was formerly one of the most powerful magisters in Tevinter.

Bryce was a handsome man who cut a dashing figure in his ceremonial armor, with his regal red cloak and his family crest emblazoned across the breastplate in sapphires. He knew this, it was a strong negotiating tool, and from the look he got from the woman, he knew that it wasn't going to do him any good this time.

"Magister Equitius-" To his surprise the woman cut him off.

"Let's save the pleasantries, neither me, you, nor your daughter have the time for them. Besides, I'm no longer a member of the Magisterium, no point in a useless title." She spoke without any hint of Tevinter in her accent, surprising him once again. She sounded like a Denerim barmaid.

"I agree, no point in pleasantries, the point of the matter is this, can you save our daughter or not?" The voice came from behind Bryce, feminine but strong.

Eleanor Cousland stood behind her husband in full battle regalia. It was almost impossible to tell that less than a week ago she'd given birth.

"I can, but it will come at a cost."

"Name your price, money, power, we'll pay any fee." It wasn't exactly the best negotiating tactic, but she was right when she said that they didn't have the time to waste quibbling over the cost.

"To you, it will cost almost nothing. I've forfeited my position in Tevinter, in exchange for my services you will provide me with asylum and a position in your household so that I may watch over the girl and ensure that she reacts to the treatment properly. The real cost will be to the girl herself."

"What are you saying? Speak plainly, or I swear that I will have you lashed to the rocks for the sea to take you." The blood of her father, the Storm Giant, flowed strongly in Eleanor's veins. She might not lead raids anymore, but she still lived up to the name, Seawolf.

"Peace woman, I bear no ill-will towards your daughter, but if I go through with this ritual, she will pay the same price and bear the same burden as Calenhad, the burden of a great and glorious life." The woman cryptic speech sent Eleanor lunging at her. Bryce took a firm grip on his wife, by the Maker he loved her, but when she was angry she was like a Storm Coast gale. Bryce knew all about Calenhad, it was a very thoroughly covered topic in any Fereldan noble's education. Considering what he knew about Tevinter, she was probably saying that his daughter would have it easier with a quick and early death than if she had to stay alive and live a good life.

Tevinters were a bunch of crazy bastards like that, he thought.

"If you're guaranteeing my daughter a long and happy life, then that is a burden that I'll gladly allow her to bear. If a place in my home is what you demand, then save my daughter and I will welcome you into my home as kin." Eleanor relaxed in his grip and he released her.

The former magister gave them a sad smile, somehow sympathetic and sneering at the same time.

"I said great and glorious, not long and happy, but no matter, you're descision has clearly been made. Show me to the girl's room and I can begin.

…

The ritual was fairly straight forward, at least from Bryce's perspective. Equitius drew a series of concentric circles around Ariel's cradle using a special kind of chalk. Then she lit some kind of incense, filling the room with the scent of Rashvine. She crushed a variety of herbs into powder and mixed them together in a large silver chalice, then she drew a flask from her cloak. Bryce knew that the dark red mixture contained within could only be one thing, blood.

The part that made him particularly nervous was when she drew a blade and turned to them.

"It is time to begin, no matter what, once the ritual has begun, nothing can be done to interrupt it. This is your last chance to decide otherwise."

Bryce contemplated it for a moment, then looked to Eleanor. She held the same look in her eyes that she'd had when they'd been sending Orlesian warships to the bottom of the sea, cold hard conviction.

"Do what you need."

She nodded and drew the knife across her palm.

"Lusacan, lord of darkness, I call to you, to the Great Dragons who remain unblemished by the Folly of the Magisters, I ask you to grant this girl strength through your blood." She emptied the flask of blood into the chalice.

"I offer you my blood," she squeezed her cut hand into a fist, squeezing her blood into the chalice.

"I offer the blood of the father," she handed him the knife, he looked at it for a second, then cut his palm and let the blood fall into the chalice.

"I offer the blood of the mother," the chalice and blade went to Eleanor, who mimicked her husband without a moment's hesitation.

"Let it mix with her blood," That was the only part that seemed to unnerve Eleanor, she twitched as the woman made a small cut along their daughter's tiny hand, almost going for her own dagger before she stopped herself.

"Let the song of the stone call to you," she dumped a vial of refined Lyrium into the chalice.

"Let the blood mix, let your strength become her strength, let your blood become her blood."

Then she started chanting in an unfamiliar language, the smoke from the incense coiled unnaturally above Ariel's crib. Bryce wanted to scream as he felt as if his blood had begun to boil, the wounds on his and Eleanor's hands began to glow.

The coiled smoke turned blood red as she chanted, and the coil began to take shape, forming into a dragon and glowing.

Then the woman screamed.

"MAKE HER ONE OF YOUR OWN!"

The Dragon surged straight down, seemingly disappearing into his daughter as the woman forced the contents of the chalice down his daughter's throat.

Then there was a flash of light and an explosion of force, sending the woman, Eleanor, and himself to the ground.

Then everything was quiet.

"Waaaaaah!" the infant's scream was ear piercing, amplified by the room's acoustics, it struck Bryce like a dagger wedged into his ear canal.

And it was the most beautiful sound that he'd heard in his life

 **What do you guys think? This is one of the chapters that I like, if only because the ritual was fun to write.**

 **Anyone take the hints yet?**

 **R &R people.**


End file.
